“I’m not,” spoke up young Potter, blusteringly.  “What did we come out here for, hey?  I say it’s a confounded shame.  We might have had a chance to send one of the Spaniards to the bottom.”

“It may be a Dago after all,” suggested “Bill,” glancing from the port.  “The flag doesn’t mean anything.  They might be flying Old Glory as a ruse de guerre.  By George!  That craft looks just like the ‘Pluton.’”

We, who were watching, saw Potter’s face lengthen.  He peered nervously at the rapidly approaching torpedo boat, and then tried to laugh unconcernedly.

“You can’t ‘string’ me,” he retorted.  “That’s one of your Uncle Samuel’s boats all right.  See! they are going to hail us.”

A bell clanged in the engine room, then the throbbing of the machinery slackened to a slow pulsation.  The rudder chains rattled in their fair-leaders, and presently we were steaming along, with the torpedo craft a score of yards off our midships.

On the forward deck of the latter stood two officers clad in the uniform of the commissioned service.  One placed a speaking trumpet to his lips and called out: 

“Cruiser ahoy!  Is that the ’Yankee’?”

“You have made a good guess,” shouted Captain Brownson.  “What boat is that?”

“‘Talbot’ from Newport.  Any news?  Sighted you and thought we would speak you.”

Our commander assured them that we were in search of news ourselves.  The “Talbot’s” officers saluted and then waved a farewell.

The narrow, low-lying craft spun about in almost her own length, a series of quick puffs of dense black smoke came from the funnels, and then the haze swallowed up the whole fabric.

We were left to take our discomfiture with what philosophy we could muster.  When “secure” was sounded we left our guns with a sense of great danger averted and a feeling of relief.

CHAPTER VI.

We become coal heavers.

The little strip of North American coast between Delaware Breakwater and Block Island is very interesting, and, in places, beautiful.  The long beaches and bare sand dunes have a solemn beauty all their own.

Though the boys on the “Yankee” took in and appreciated the loveliness of this bit of coast, they were getting rather familiar with it and somewhat bored.  They longed for “pastures new.”

Summer had almost begun, but still the fog and rain held sway.  The ship crept through the night like a big gray ghost—­dark, swift, and, except in the densest fogs, silent.  Pea-coats were an absolute necessity, and woolen gloves would have been a great comfort.  All this in the blooming, beautiful month of May!