The defective projectile must be taken out and tossed into the sea. The
second loader steps forward at a signal from the gun captain. This
second loader is "Stump." He shows no fear, but draws out the heavy
cartridge, handling it as he would a harmless dummy, and passes it to
another man and myself. Carrying it between us--and carrying it
gingerly--we hasten to the side, and with a powerful swing, launch the
hundred-pound projectile through the open port.

It barely clears the port sill, coming so close to it, in fact, that for
one breathless second we think that it will strike. As the shell passes
from view, another sigh of relief comes from the spectators. "Hay"
passes a grimy towel over his perspiring face.

"Whew! that was a ticklish moment," he said, solemnly. "I'd just as soon
not handle any more defective shells."

Which exactly represented our sentiments.

Three minutes later Number Eight was barking away at the forts ashore,
and the episode of the cartridge that missed fire was a thing of the
past.

The bombardment of Santiago had now lasted over an hour. As yet not one
of the American vessels had been reached by a shell, nor had the forts
suffered any perceptible damage. The fleet, roaring and thundering, was
swinging back and forth through the great semicircle, the smoke from the
guns was banking along the beach, and from Morro Castle and its
attending batteries came sharp, defiant answers to the interminable
volleys fired by our squadron.