“She’s escaped!” groaned “Stump.”  “It’s the torpedo boat, and she is safe again.”

As if to prove the truth of his words the guns on the “New Orleans” and “Massachusetts” became silent; then word was sent below to “secure.”  Our first action was disappointing, but there was little grumbling.  We knew full well that momentous events were bound to occur before long.

The following morning, shortly after daybreak, the torpedo boat “Porter” steamed alongside.  Her coming created some excitement, and the “Yankee’s” crew promptly lined the railing.

“What’s that object on the deck?” asked “Stump,” pointing to a long brass cylinder lying abaft the after conning tower.

“It’s a torpedo, but not like those used in our navy,” replied “Hay.”

Captain Brownson leaned over the end of the bridge and waved his hand to Lieutenant Fremont, the “Porter’s” commander.  The latter was smiling, and as we watched, he made a gesture toward the mysterious brass cylinder.

“See that thing, Brownson?” he called out.

The captain nodded.

“It almost paid you a visit last night.”

“What——­”

“We picked it up near shore this morning and sunk another.  That Spanish torpedo boat made a great attempt to sink one of our ships, and, if I am not mistaken, the ‘Yankee’ was her intended prey.  Congratulations.”

As the “Porter” steamed away we felt very much like congratulating ourselves.  This was grim war of a certainty.  Like the boy who was blown a mile in a cyclone without injury, we experienced a certain pride that we really had been in danger.

About the middle of the afternoon a signal was seen on the flagship.  It was read at once, and immediately the boatswain’s mate passed a call that sent a thrill of anticipation through us.  It was: 

“All hands clear ship for action!”

[Illustration:  “Clear ship for action!”]

CHAPTER IX.

Clear ship for action.

The boatswain’s mate’s shrill piping and the long drawn out cry, “All hands clear ship for action!” was not entirely unexpected.  An unusual activity on the part of the signal men on the flagship “New York” had not escaped our notice, and when the summons to prepare for battle echoed through the “Yankee’s” decks it found us in readiness for prompt obedience.

At the time the call sounded a number of us were standing in the port waist idly watching the fleet and the shore.  “Bill,” a member of the powder division, whose father is a prominent real estate broker of New York, and whose great talent is for practical joking and general fun making, was telling a story.  As we scattered at the summons, he started below with me.  Even the circumstances could not prevent him following his hobby, and he whispered as we hurried along: