“Cuba libre!” it yelled. “To hell with Spain!” and he found that the voice was his own.
The story lost nothing in the way Carr wrote it.
“And the best of it is,” he exclaimed joyfully, “it’s true!”
For a Spanish gun-boat had been crippled and forced to run herself aground by a tug-boat manned by Cuban patriots, and by a single gun served by one man, and that man an American. It was the first sea-fight of the war. Over night a Cuban navy had been born, and into the limelight a cub reporter had projected a new “hero,” a ready-made, warranted-not-to-run, popular idol.
They were seated in the pilot-house, “Jimmy” Doyle, Carr, and David, the patriots and their arms had been safely dumped upon the coast of Cuba, and The Three Friends was gliding swiftly and, having caught the Florida straits napping, smoothly toward Key West. Carr had just finished reading aloud his account of the engagement.
“You will tell the story just as I have written it,” commanded the proud author. “Your being South as a travelling salesman was only a blind. You came to volunteer for this expedition. Before you could explain your wish you were mistaken for a secret-service man, and hustled on board. That was just where you wanted to be, and when the moment arrived you took command of the ship and single-handed won the naval battle of Nipe Bay.”
Jimmy Doyle nodded his head approvingly. “You certainly did, Dave,” protested the great man, “I seen you when you done it!”
At Key West Carr filed his story and while the hospital surgeons kept David there over one steamer, to dress his wounds, his fame and features spread across the map of the United States.
Burdett and Sons basked in reflected glory. Reporters besieged their office. At the Merchants Down-Town Club the business men of lower Broadway tendered congratulations.
“Of course, it’s a great surprise to us,” Burdett and Sons would protest and wink heavily. “Of course, when the boy asked to be sent South we’d no idea he was planning to fight for Cuba! Or we wouldn’t have let him go, would we?” Then again they would wink heavily. “I suppose you know,” they would say, “that he’s a direct descendant of General Hiram Greene, who won the battle of Trenton. What I say is, ‘Blood will tell!’” And then in a body every one in the club would move against the bar and exclaim: “Here’s to Cuba libre!”