Where were we bound? Were we to join the Havana blockading fleet? Were
we destined for despatch and scout duty? Or were we to take part in
actual conflict?

It was while we were settling these questions to our own satisfaction on
the morning of June 2d, that a hail came from the lookout at the
masthead forward.

"Land O!" he shouted, waving his cap. "Hurray! it's Cuba!"

The navigator, whose rightful surname had been converted by the
facetious Naval Reserves into "Cutlets," for reasons of their own, lost
no time in rebuking the too enthusiastic lookout.

"Aloft, there, you measly lubber! What in thunder do you mean? Have you
sighted land?"

"Ye-es, sir-r," 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