rest he
possessed. I knew him from his youth up, and I am well aware of his
goodness, as are you. He was a good husband, a good father, and a good
friend. It is hard to give him up, but it must be. He died at the age
of----'

"Here the speaker glanced at the casket beside which he stood, and read
the following:

MICHAEL DOOLEY

DEPARTED THIS LIFE IN HIS PRIME,
AT THE AGE OF
7777.

"'Yis, my bereaved friends,' he continued, 'he was a good father,
husband, and friend, and none knows that better than I. He was cut off
in the pride of manhood, you might say--in his prime, at the age of----'

"He glanced at the inscription again, then, after a painful pause,
blurted forth: 'Well, how the divil did he escape the flood?'"

The sound of "tattoo" interrupted our laughter at this point, and all
Hands tumbled below.

The following day we got rid of the last of the ammunition to the
"Massachusetts." A sigh of relief and thankfulness went up as the last
charge of powder was taken over the side.

The same day we saw some of our prize money vanish into thin air. The
"Burton" was released, and steamed out of the harbor.

It was about this time that a well-authenticated rumor went the rounds
to the effect that we were to go with a formidable fleet to Spain,
harass her coasts, and do up Camara's fleet. This rumor was so well
founded that many of us believed it, and, consequently, much time was
spent in writing farewell letters.

The prospect of soon seeing the "land of the free and the home of the
brave" was not very bright. The consensus of opinion at this time was
that we would see our year out in Uncle Sam's service.

There was considerable gloom. The start once made and the "Yankee"
actually on her way to the land of the Dons, all would be well and all
hands would be cheerful; but the contemplation of the long trip in the
wrong direction was a very different matter.

The air was full of rumors. All was uncertain. We continued to write
farewell letters, while the invading fleet still lay quietly at anchor,
but ready to sail to the ends of the earth at a few hours' notice.

The night of August 10th was moonless and dark. There had been no music
from the "Oregon's" band, and none of our men felt inclined to sing.

The uncertainty had begun to tell, and all were a little depressed.

I was "it" for anchor watch, and, as is often the case, the anchor watch
manned the running small boat.

We visited several vessels of