Caleb and Si had followed the senseless form of Walter to the sick bay of the warship, the Yankee youth with the blood streaming from a deep cut in his left cheek. Both were in distress for fear their comrade was seriously injured.
"Yes, he'll live, but he has had a narrow escape," was the reply of the medical man in charge of the case. "The bit of shell scraped his left temple, as you see. Had it come a little closer, it would have gone through his brain."
Walter had been placed on a swinging cot, and now his head was bound up. Before this operation was over he opened his eyes.
"Whe—where am I?" he stammered. "Wh—what hit me?"
"Praise God, he's himself again!" murmured Caleb, reverently. "I was afraid he was a goner."
"So was I," whispered Si. "And I don't know how I could spare Walter—he seems so like a brother."
"You must lie quiet for a while," said the surgeon. "You'll be all right by to-night." And then he gave Walter some medicine to brace his nerves, for they had been sadly shattered by the shock. The remainder of that Saturday was spent in bed.
On this memorable day the fighting on land had been even more fierce than on the sea. The army of invasion had taken the various outposts of Santiago, and the very city itself now lay at General Shafter's mercy. It was felt that a day or two longer would bring matters to a climax.
When Walter joined his comrades after supper he looked rather pale and scared. Almost silently he took Si's hand and wrung it.
"You are all right?" he whispered.