The men talked cheerfully of home, pursuits, and pleasures, for it was too fine, too bright, to be depressed.

Finally the sun went down in a blaze of glory, dropping suddenly into the sea as it is wont to do in the tropics.

In a few minutes it was dark.  In these latitudes there is practically no twilight; the sun jumps into his full strength in the morning, and quenches his glory in the sea before one realizes the day is gone.

Soon after dark the lookouts began to report lights, and before long we found ourselves steaming into a fine harbor, which we learned was Port Antonio.

A delightful feeling of security stole over us.  We were at anchor in a friendly port, the inhabitants of which spoke the same tongue as we did and sympathized with us.  We turned in at the earliest possible moment, and as we lay in our “elevated folding beds,” as “Hay” called them, we could hear unmistakable shore sounds—­the barking of dogs, the crowing of cocks, and according to some active imaginations, even the bell of a trolley car.

At one o’clock we were wakened by the call, “All hands on the cat falls.”  We slipped out of our “dream bags” with the best grace we could muster, and went forward to pull up the anchor to its place on the forecastle deck.

So we gave up the pleasant idea that we were to spend the night undisturbed, and the guns’ crews of the watch on deck made themselves as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, on their wooden couch around the guns; viz., the deck.

When the sun rose next morning, we found that land was plainly visible from the port side, and we soon learned that we were still in Jamaican waters and would arrive at Montego Bay about ten o’clock.

The programme was carried out to the dot.

The “Yankee” steamed into the beautiful bay, the crew “at quarters,” in honor of the English man-of-war “Indefatigable,” which lay at anchor there, and we had hardly let down our anchor when a fleet of “bumboats” came chasing out to us.

Though an American warship had never visited this port before, we seemed to be recognized by these enterprising marine storekeepers as easy prey.

The native “bumboat” is a dugout affair very narrow for its length, and seemingly so cranky that we marvelled at the size of the sail carried.  They brought fruits of all kinds, and tobacco, so we didn’t stop to criticise their rig, but showed plainly that we were right glad to see them.

The boatmen and women were all colored people and, like the race the world over, were most fantastically and gaily clothed.  The women wore bright-hued calico dresses, and brighter bandana handkerchiefs on their heads.  The men wore flaming neckties, gay shirts, and, in some cases, tall white or gray beaver hats.

The boats were filled with yellow, green, and red fruits and brightly-colored packages of tobacco, the whole making a most vivid and brilliant display of color.