It was not until almost dark the next day that the bunkers were filled.  At three bells (half-past five o’clock) we dropped the collier and steamed to sea en route down the coast.  Shortly after ten the “Yankee” passed the fleet off Santiago.  The electric searchlights in use on the ships nearer shore made a particularly brilliant display.  The rays were turned directly upon the entrance to the harbor, and it was plainly evident that not even a small boat could emerge without being discovered.

All day Sunday we steamed out of sight of land, our course being to the westward and our speed a good fourteen knots.

For four hours in the morning we scrubbed the gun deck, washed the white paint work with fresh water and soap, scrubbed the deck with stiff “kiyi” brushes, and polished off the bright work.  By noon the deck had its pristine immaculate look.  We were in the midst of the sloppy job when “forecastle Murray” (one of the Murray twins—­they looked so much alike that the invariable greeting in the morning was “How are you, Murray—­or are you your brother?”) came aft for a bucket of fresh water.

“What do you think of this?” he inquired pugnaciously.  “Here we are scrubbing this blooming gun deck to beat the band, cleaning up the dirt of a two day’s coaling, and now, forsooth, we are ploughing through the water at a fourteen or fifteen knot gait and burning up that coal almost as fast as we put it in.”

He disappeared up the galley ladder, grumbling as he went.

“Another county heard from,” said “Stump.”  “It does seem rather tough, but here goes”—­he gave a vicious jerk to the hose he was handling and the stream caught “Hay” full in the neck, whereupon “Hay” saw to it that “Stump” had a salt-water bath.

By the time “mess gear” was piped, the ship was very clean, so during the afternoon we were left largely to our own devices.  Some wrote letters, though the possibility of sending them or of receiving answers was very remote.  Others gathered in little knots and read or sewed, and still others took advantage of the time to “caulk off” and make up some lost sleep.

And so passed another Sunday.  Though we might not have a religious service we were certainly cleanly, and, therefore, at the worst, not far from godly.

Nothing of interest occurred until early Monday morning.  Several minutes before “mess gear” was due, a lookout at the masthead reported smoke in sight off the starboard bow.  The engine room was signalled for full steam, and the “Yankee” sped away in chase.

“It’s our day for scrapping,” said “Stump.”  “We’ve had more fighting on Monday than on any other day of the week.  I wonder if it’s a Spanish cruiser?”

“It is heading for Trinidad, whatever it is,” remarked “Hay.”  “Do you see that sloping hill just ahead?  It marks the entrance to the little port of Trinidad.  If I am not mistaken we’ll find a gunboat or two in the harbor.”