"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 amusement 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 boats