That night every ship in the fleet was provided with telephone service. I appointed the Olympia to be the central office, so that I might myself control all the messages, or at least hear them as they passed to and fro. In the absence of ladies from the fleet, I appointed a somewhat effeminate subaltern to the post of “Hello Officer,” with complete control over the switch-board. And, as it transpired, this was a very wise precaution, because the central office was placed in the hold, and the poor little chap’s courage was so inclined to ooze that in the midst of the fight he was content to sit below the water-line at his post, and not run about the promenade-deck giving orders while under fire. I have cabled the President about him, and have advised his promotion. His heroic devotion to the switch-board ought to make him a naval attaché to some foreign court, at least. I trust his bravery will ultimately result in his being sent to the Paris Exposition as charge d’affaires in the Erie Canal department of the New York State exhibit.
But to return to my despatch—which from this point must disregard space and move quickly. Passing Cape Bolinao, we soon reached Subig Bay, fifty miles from Manila. Recognizing the cape by the crop of hemp on its brow, I rang up the Boston and the Concord.
“Search Subig Bay,” I ordered.
“Who’s this?” came the answer from the other end.
“Never mind who I am,” said I. “Search Subig Bay for Spaniards.”
“Hello!” said the Boston.
“Who the deuce are you?” cried the Concord.
“I’m seventeen-five-six,” I replied, with some sarcasm, for that was not my number.
“I want sixteen-two-one,” retorted the Boston.
“Ring off,” said the Concord. “What do you mean by giving me seventeen-five-six?”