" quavered the lookout.

"Then why don't you say so without adding any conjectures of your own?"
commented the irascible Lieutenant "Cutlets," severely.

The rest of the crew were too deeply interested in the vague streak of
color on the horizon to pay any attention to the "wigging" of the man at
the masthead. We knew that the dun-hued streak rising from the blue
shadows of the ocean was Cuba, and we could think or talk of nothing
else.

Somewhere beyond that towering mountain was Santiago, the port in which
the flea-like squadron of Admiral Cervera was bottled up, and there was
a deadly fear in our hearts that the wily Spaniard would sally forth to
battle before we could join our fleet.

We pictured to ourselves the gray mountain massed high about the narrow
entrance of Santiago Bay, the picturesque Morro Castle, squatting like a
grim giant above the strait, and outside, tossing and bobbing upon the
swell of a restless sea, the mighty semicircle of drab ships waiting,
yearning for the outcoming of the Dons. We of the "Yankee," I repeat,
were in an agony of dread that we would arrive too late.

Cape Maysi, the scene of many an adventurous filibustering expedition,
was passed at high noon, and at eight bells in the evening the anchor
was dropped off Mole St. Nicholas, a convenient port in the island of
Hayti. As we steamed into the harbor we passed close to the auxiliary
cruiser "St. Louis."

The anchor was scarcely on the bottom when the gig was called away. We
awaited the return of Captain Brownson with impatience. The news he
brought was reassuring, however. Nothing of moment had occurred since
our departure from New York. Within an hour we were again out at sea,
this time en route to Santiago.

There was little sleep on board that night, and when morning dawned,
every man who could escape from below was on deck watching, waiting for
the first glimpse of Admiral Sampson's fleet. Shortly after daylight,
the squadron was sighted. The scene was picturesque in the extreme.

The gray of early dawn was just giving way before the first rays of a
tropical sun. Almost hidden in the mist hovering about the coast were a
number of vague spots seemingly arranged in a semicircle, the base of
which was the green-covered tableland fronting Santiago. The spots were
tossing idly upon a restless sea, and, as the sun rose higher, each
gradually assumed the shape of a marine engine of war. Beyond them was
a stretch of sandy, surf