CHAPTER VIII.

WE JOIN SAMPSON'S FLEET.

As the "Yankee" steamed in toward the blockading fleet off the entrance
to Santiago harbor, the scurrying torpedo boats and the many little
launches darting here and there like so many beetles on a pond, became
more apparent, and it was plainly evident to all that something of great
importance had recently happened.

The scattered remarks made by Captain Brownson on the bridge formed,
when pieced together, such a wonderful bit of news that I could scarcely
contain myself as I hurried aft. I wanted to stop and fling my cap into
the air. I felt like dancing a jig and hurrahing and offering praise for
the fact that I was an American.

As it happened, I was not the only member of the "Yankee's" crew that
had overheard the "old man's" words. The second captain of the after
port five-inch gun, a jolly good fellow, known familiarly as "Hay" by
the boys, chanced to be under the bridge. As I raced aft on the port
side he started in the same direction on the starboard side of the spar
deck. His legs fairly twinkled, and he beat me to the gangway by a neck.

"What do you think?" I heard him gasp as I came up. "Talk of your
heroes! Whoop! Say, I'm glad I am a son of that old flag aft there. It's
the greatest thing that ever happened."

"What?" chorused a dozen voices.