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-beaten coast, and directly fronting the centre
ship could be seen a narrow cleft in the hill--the gateway leading to
the ancient city of Santiago de Cuba.

As we steamed in closer to the fleet we saw indications that something
of importance had occurred or was about to occur. Steam launches and
torpedo boats were dashing about between the ships, strings of
parti-colored bunting flaunted from the signal halliards of the flagship
"New York," and nearer shore could be seen one of the smaller cruisers
evidently making a reconnaissance.

"We are just in time, Russ," exclaimed "Stump," jubilantly. "The fleet
is getting ready for a scrap. And we'll be right in it."

I edged toward the bridge. The first news would come from that quarter.
Several minutes later, Captain Brownson, who had been watching the
signals with a powerful glass, closed the instrument with a snap, and
cried out to the executive officer:

"Hubbard, you will never believe it."

"What's happened?"

The reply was given so low that I could catch only a few words, but it
was enough to send me scurrying aft at the top of my speed. The news was
startling indeed.