But the danger is not yet over.

The defective projectile must be taken out and tossed into the sea.  The second loader steps forward at a signal from the gun captain.  This second loader is “Stump.”  He shows no fear, but draws out the heavy cartridge, handling it as he would a harmless dummy, and passes it to another man and myself.  Carrying it between us—­and carrying it gingerly—­we hasten to the side, and with a powerful swing, launch the hundred-pound projectile through the open port.

It barely clears the port sill, coming so close to it, in fact, that for one breathless second we think that it will strike.  As the shell passes from view, another sigh of relief comes from the spectators.  “Hay” passes a grimy towel over his perspiring face.

“Whew! that was a ticklish moment,” he said, solemnly.  “I’d just as soon not handle any more defective shells.”

Which exactly represented our sentiments.

Three minutes later Number Eight was barking away at the forts ashore, and the episode of the cartridge that missed fire was a thing of the past.

The bombardment of Santiago had now lasted over an hour.  As yet not one of the American vessels had been reached by a shell, nor had the forts suffered any perceptible damage.  The fleet, roaring and thundering, was swinging back and forth through the great semicircle, the smoke from the guns was banking along the beach, and from Morro Castle and its attending batteries came sharp, defiant answers to the interminable volleys fired by our squadron.

“It’s a good thing Uncle Sam’s shot locker is pretty capacious,” remarked Flagg, as we shoved another cartridge into the yawning breech of our five-inch gun.  “If we haven’t fired over three hundred rounds since seven o’clock I can’t count.”

“It’ll be double that before we get through,” grunted “Long Tommy,” as we stepped back from the loaded gun.  “Steady, there.  Stand by!”

A motion to “Hay,” who held the firing lanyard, and almost instantly came the sharp, vicious report of the breechloader.  Each man sprang back to his station, and the process of reloading went on without delay.  The battle smoke from Number Six, which had filled our port for some time, cleared away just then, enabling us to see “Hay’s” last shot strike squarely upon the outer line of earthworks of the Punta Gorda battery.

“Splendid shot, ’Hay’!” exclaimed our division officer, briefly.

“Bully, that’s what it is—­bully!” cried “Stump,” patting the second captain upon the back.

“Hurray! it’s knocked out a gun,” reported “Dye,” from nearer the port.  “I saw the piece keel over backward.”

There was no time for further comment.  When a gun’s crew is firing at will, and the excitement of combat has taken possession of the individual members, the task in hand requires all one’s attention.  We of Number Eight had suffered one delay, and we really felt that the lost time must be made up.