"Hurrah," shouted Bert.
"Hurrah for what?" asked the captain, smiling at the enthusiastic boy who swung his cap as he shouted.
"Why, just hurrah," answered Bert, sheepishly. "I began to think all land had disappeared from the face of the ocean."
"Then you don't like the water?"
"Heretofore I always considered myself dead stuck on it, but hereafter terra firma for mine. Something that you can dig your heels into and where disagreeable Spaniards don't send bullets whistling around your ears. How soon will we make Havana, captain?"
One of Dynamite's roaring laughs greeted this question of Bert's.
"Me boy," he said, as soon as he caught his breath, "if we should sail into Havana harbor every mother's son of us would be shot by sunrise to-morrow."
"But you are going to land somewhere?" questioned Harry.
"Sure there's a fine bit of a place down the coast that we'll take a peep into before the moon's high to-night—barrin' any more Spanish terriers. Sure they're thick on this coast. A pack of snarling mongrels, and all snapping at the heels of Captain Dynamite. It's a proud man I should be with a head on me that's worth five thousand dollars to the man who can take it to Weyler."
"Do you mean that the Spaniards have put a price of five thousand dollars on your head?" asked Harry in amazement, as he backed away from the man instinctively.