“‘Well,’ I cried, ‘I am in luck. Wait, bo’s’n, till I light up. Now, then, heave round, my friend. Sure you’re not thirsty?’
“‘No, sirree. I feel that last little tot in my eye like. Ever seen Hobson? Well, you’ll like ’im when you does. You’ve seen a yacht, spick and span, new, that can rip through a stormy sea, hang or move like a Mother Carey’s chicken, and do ’most anything. That’s him. That’s Hobson. Bless you, sir, the old men didn’t like the youngster’s brave proposal at first. They pooh-poohed it, as ye might say. Even Schley himself laughed a little, as, in his fatherly way, he put a hand on young Hobson’s shoulder. I was as close to ’em, sir, as I am to Jack here. “Admiral Cervera,” he says, “is in yonder right enough. Only wish the beggar would come out. He’s bottled.”
“‘“Ay, admiral,” says Hobbie, as we calls him for fond like, “and I want to cork the bottle. Give me that old collier the Merrimac, and, with a few volunteers, I’ll take her in and sink her right across the narrow neck, ’twixt Canores and Estrella Points, and——”
“‘“And where will you and your men be then?” says Schley.
“‘“I’ll give you my word of honour, sir, I’ll go to heaven, almost cheerfully, as soon’s we bottle up the dirty Don! Besides, sir,” he says, “why smash that fine fleet up, when it would make so grand an addition to the American Navy?”
“‘Yes; and it were that very argerment, I guess, that carried the pint, wi’ the captains in council assembled. Volunteers! Ay, in course; half the navy would have volunteered to steam to certain death with young Hobson. It was the forlornest o’ hopes ever led.
“‘Look you, see, sir.’ The bo’s’n paused a minute to draw with his knife a rough sketch of Santiago bay and city on the ground.
“‘That’s my map, like, o’ the place lying down yonder beneath us in the moonlight. Them things there at sea is the fleet—our fleet. You’ll have to take Cervera’s for granted, but one of his ships lay here, you see, to guard the entrance. The crosses is the batteries, and they did blaze and batter us that awful night!’
“The bo’s’n paused a moment, and laid his hand affectionately on Jack Hardy’s shoulder.
“‘Me and my young pal here,’ he continued, ‘had known one another for months afore then. There was something about the lad that made me like him. See’d him throw his extra garments one day and go like thunder for big Nat Dowlais, ’cause he’d kicked the ship’s cat. Ay, and welted him well, too. I took to talkin’ more to Jack after that. But I couldn’t get down deep enough to the boy’s heart. There was something under the surface; I could tell that. Jack was no ordinary bit o’ ship’s junk. Bless you, sir, there’s hundreds o’ gentlemen’s sons before the mast—but they’re not all like Jack Hardy. Jack was more like a stage sailor than anything else. Everything he put on was so darned natty—his hands so white and soft, though his face and neck was brown. Then he talked American like a book. Played the piano, too, like a freak, and was often in the ward-room in consequence. And blowed if I didn’t hear the master-at-arms—bloomin’ old brass-bound Jimmy Legs—more’n once call him “sir.”