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.

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.

“Last night—­”

“Yes.”

“Last night a volunteer crew—­”

“Hurry up, will you?”

“Last night, or rather early this morning, a volunteer crew, under the command of a naval constructor named Hobson, took the collier ‘Merrimac’ into the mouth of the harbor and—­”

“That old tub?” interrupted a marine who had served in the regular navy, incredulously.  “Why, she’s nothing but a hulk.  She hasn’t a gun or—­”