"For the hundred and 'steenth time," added "Stump," with a grin.

"Perhaps he's seasick," suggested "Dye." "It's about due. He hasn't heaved up his boots since noon."

"Did you hear what 'Cutlets' said to him yesterday?" spoke up "Hay." "He was 'wigging' Kennedy, and he remarked in his tender way, 'Look here, you hero, why don't you brace up and be a man? You are continually sick or on the report, and you aren't worth your salt. Get down below now, and fill your billet.' Poor devil! he tries to do his best, I guess."

Just then Kennedy faced around toward us and we saw that he was laughing.

"What do you think?" he said. "It's a fire after all."

"A fire? Where?" we gasped simultaneously.

"In the furnaces. I saw a big flame leaping from the funnel. Gee! they must be whooping her up below to beat the band. Coal piled up to the top of the flues."

"It's oil," exclaimed Tommy, gravely. "They are feeding the fires with crude oil. That means the last resort, fellows. The 'old man' is trying to get every ounce of steam possible."

Our curiosity satisfied, we felt more at ease, and we lounged at our stations and listened to the banging of furnace doors and grating of shovels in the fire room below. Occasionally one of us would venture an opinion or try to exchange views, and "Stump" even started a story, but in the main we were quiet and watchful.

From the swaying and trembling of the hull it was evident the "Yankee"

was being pushed at her utmost speed. Mess gear rattled in the chests, the deck quivered, and from down in the lower depths came the quick throb-throb of the overworked engines. Presently the red glare caused by the upleaping flames from the funnel died away, and darkness settled down again.

"I guess we are making it," observed Tommy. "We have been a good two hours racing at this gait, which means a matter of almost forty miles."

"They might let us take a run on deck," grumbled Flagg. "What's the use of holding up this gun all night? It's getting monotonous."

"Here comes the 'Kid,'" exclaimed "Dye." "He may have some news."

The youngster brought a message to Lieutenant Greene. As he started off, he whispered:

"We are going to 'secure' in a few moments. It has been a great scoot. I heard the captain say to 'Mother Hubbub' that it would go down in history as a masterly retreat."

"Was it a Spanish fleet?" queried "Hay."

"They are not certain. The skipper now thinks that it was a convoy of transports bringing the army of occupation. He didn't stop to find out, though. Say, you fellows look tired. Why don't you 'pipe down'?"

He scurried off with a laugh, and we were just settling back for another siege of it when the welcome order came to "secure." The order was executed in a jiffy, and then those who had the off watch piled into their hammocks with a celerity seldom equalled. Santiago was reached early the following morning, and before the day was over we heard that our neighbors of the night before were, as the captain had suspected, a fleet of transports bringing troops from the United States.

"Which doesn't alter the fact that we displayed wisdom in taking a 'sneak,'" commented Tommy, grimly. "It's a clever chief who knows when to retreat."

The great gray ships still tossed idly on the rolling blue sea when we took our station at the right of the line.

It seemed more like a panorama, arranged for the amus.e.m.e.nt of an admiring crowd, than a fleet of floating forts ready at a moment's notice to pour out death and destruction.

The flagship "New York," gay with signal bunting, was the centre of a fleet of launches and small boats. The boats' crews, in white duck, lounged in their places, while the captains were aboard conferring with the admiral.

The torpedo boat "Porter" flashed in and out between the grim battleships in an almost playful way.

A signal boy on the "Brooklyn" held a long wigwag conversation with the flagship, the bit of bright color showing sharply against the lead-colored turret.

It was hard to realize that only a few days ago these same ships, that now rested so calmly and majestically, were enveloped in clouds of smoke, their great guns spitting forth fire and a fearful hail of steel.

We looked at picturesque old Morro on the bluff, and there, close to the lighthouse, still floated the Spanish colors. It was aggravating, and we would like to have shot the hateful bunting away.

We had no sooner reached our station than the boatswain's call echoed from one end of the ship to the other, "Away gig." Whereupon the gig's crew rushed below and "broke out" clean whites. No matter what happens, the gig's crew must always be clean, both in person and apparel.

Our gig soon joined the fleet of waiting boats at the flagship's gangway, and lay there while the captain went aboard.

The skipper returned about noon and went forward. Immediately, we heard the cry "All hands on the gig falls." Then, before the boat was fairly out of water, we heard the engine bell jingle.

We were off again.

Some active member of the "Rumor Committee" said we were bound for Jamaica. And after consultation with a signal boy, who came aft to read the patent log, we found that we were heading for that island.

The wind was dead ahead and blowing fresh and cool, but the sun was hot, and the boatswain's mates were instructed to keep the men in the shade as much as possible.

The stress and strain of the night before made the few hours of "caulking off," that we now enjoyed, particularly grateful.

We lay so thick on the windward side of the spar deck under the awning, that it would have been difficult to find foot room.

Every hour a signal boy came running aft to read the log, which was attached to the taffrail on the starboard quarter. The log worked on the same princ.i.p.al as a bicycle cyclometer. It had two dials that indicated the miles and fractions of miles as they were reeled off. A long, braided line, having what we called a "twister" attached, trailed behind in the water and made the wheels go round, a certain number of revolutions to the mile.

Hour after hour the ship rushed through the water. The engines throbbed in a regular, settled sort of way, that reminded one of a man snoring.

The wind blew softly and caressingly. The ship rolled easily in the long swell. It was soothing and restful, and we felt quite reconciled to life in the navy. We almost forgot that we were on an engine of war; that there was enough ammunition below to blow up several "Maine's," and that we were cruising in the enemy's country.

The men talked cheerfully of home, pursuits, and pleasures, for it was too fine, too bright, to be depressed.

Finally the sun went down in a blaze of glory, dropping suddenly into the sea as it is wont to do in the tropics.

In a few minutes it was dark. In these lat.i.tudes there is practically no twilight; the sun jumps into his full strength in the morning, and quenches his glory in the sea before one realizes the day is gone.

Soon after dark the lookouts began to report lights, and before long we found ourselves steaming into a fine harbor, which we learned was Port Antonio.

A delightful feeling of security stole over us. We were at anchor in a friendly port, the inhabitants of which spoke the same tongue as we did and sympathized with us. We turned in at the earliest possible moment, and as we lay in our "elevated folding beds," as "Hay" called them, we could hear unmistakable sh.o.r.e sounds--the barking of dogs, the crowing of c.o.c.ks, and according to some active imaginations, even the bell of a trolley car.

At one o'clock we were wakened by the call, "All hands on the cat falls." We slipped out of our "dream bags" with the best grace we could muster, and went forward to pull up the anchor to its place on the forecastle deck.

So we gave up the pleasant idea that we were to spend the night undisturbed, and the guns' crews of the watch on deck made themselves as comfortable as possible under the circ.u.mstances, on their wooden couch around the guns; viz., the deck.

When the sun rose next morning, we found that land was plainly visible from the port side, and we soon learned that we were still in Jamaican waters and would arrive at Montego Bay about ten o'clock.

The programme was carried out to the dot.

The "Yankee" steamed into the beautiful bay, the crew "at quarters," in honor of the English man-of-war "Indefatigable," which lay at anchor there, and we had hardly let down our anchor when a fleet of "b.u.mboats"

came chasing out to us.

Though an American warship had never visited this port before, we seemed to be recognized by these enterprising marine storekeepers as easy prey.

The native "b.u.mboat" is a dugout affair very narrow for its length, and seemingly so cranky that we marvelled at the size of the sail carried.

They brought fruits of all kinds, and tobacco, so we didn't stop to criticise their rig, but showed plainly that we were right glad to see them.