I was glad to see that it was “Kid.”  His fund of ready wit and his never-failing good-nature made him a welcome companion at all times.  He did not belong to my gun, being a “powder monkey” on No. 16, a six-pounder on the spar deck, but “Kid” was privileged, and he could have penetrated to the captain’s cabin with impunity.

“Thought I’d drop down here for a rest,” he began, stretching himself and yawning.  “Too much tramping about on deck to sleep.  Say, looks as if 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.

“What were you doing at the mast this morning, ’Kid’?” I asked by way of variety.

“Had a mustering shirt in the lucky bag.”

I heard the boy chuckle.  There was an escapade behind the remark.

“You know that wardroom Jap with the bad eye?”

“Yes.”

“It was his shirt.”

“But how——­”

“It was this way.  You know how hard it has been to put up with ‘government straight’ as a steady diet, don’t you?”

I nodded.  As “government straight” meant the extremely simple bill of fare provided by Uncle Sam, consisting of salt beef, pork, hardtack, beans, and canned butter, with an occasional taste of dried fruit, I was compelled to admit my acquaintance with it.

“Well, the other night I got to dreaming that I was back in New York,” resumed “Kid.”  “I dreamt I dropped into a bang-up restaurant and ordered beefsteak, fried potatoes, pie, and——­”

A groan came from one of the gun’s crew, who was within hearing, and “Kid” lowered his voice.

“Hit him where he lived, I guess,” he chuckled.  “Well, I woke up so hungry that I couldn’t stand it any longer.  I looked up the Jap and struck him for a hand-out.  He wanted a shirt, and I wanted something to eat, and we made a bargain.  I brought him my extra mustering shirt—­it was too large for me, anyway—­and he gave me some bread and butter, cold potted tongue, three bananas, and——­”