we were going to have a little rain, doesn't it?"

The moon had just passed behind a scurrying cloud, causing the silvery
sparkle of its reflection to suddenly fade from the surface of the
water. The lights and shadows on the nearby beach changed to a streaky
dark smudge. There was a damp touch to the air.

"This would be a proper night for one of those sneaking torpedo boats to
give us a scare," resumed "Kid," thoughtfully. "Funny ways of fighting
those Dagoes have, eh? It's like prisoner's base that I played when I
was a boy."

"Kid's" eighteen years were a mature age in his opinion.

"The two torpedo craft in Santiago harbor could do a great deal of
damage if they were properly handled," I ventured. "They are
magnificent vessels of their class. Look what Cushing did with a slow
steam launch and a powder can on the end of a stick."

"The case was different."

"Yes, but----"

"Cushing was an American," interrupted the boy convincingly.

There was silence for awhile and we lolled in the port, gazing idly at
the black spots in the gloom representing the blockading fleet. Between
us and the shore was the "New Orleans," the faint tracery of her masts
just showing above the distant background of the hills. The dampness in
the air had increased, and a dash of rain came in the open port.