"The 'Dixie'—"
"Yes?"
"She's to relieve us, and we are ordered to Key West and then to New York. We're going—"
"Rats!" broke in "Hay," in disgust. "You can't give us any game like that. It's a rumor, my boy. We're never going home. The 'Yankee' is the modern 'Flying Dutchman,' and—"
At that moment the "Kid" appeared in sight, and his beaming face convinced us. It was glorious news, but not one of us felt like cheering. Our emotions were too deep for that. The mere prospect of seeing home again was enough pleasure for the moment, and we were content to talk quietly over the welcome possibility of soon meeting relatives and friends.
The "Yankee" was destined, however, to experience a little more service before dropping anchor in home waters.
For several days we cruised along the coast between Casilda and Cienfuegos. We came to know it very well; every ravine in the mountains was familiar, every inlet in the coral-bound shore known to us. It began to grow monotonous.
Time lay rather heavy on our hands, but not too heavy, for we were put to work, two guns' crews at a time, coaling in a new and torrid fashion: the coal in the after hold had not all been taken out during the northern cruise, so it was decided to pack it in bags, two hundred pounds to a bag, carry it forward and stack it in an unused ballast tank.
Number Six and Number Eight guns' crews were among the first to engage in this pleasant occupation.
We found heat enough below to supply a good-sized house all winter, so clothing seemed unnecessary. We stripped to the waist, "Cumming," a member of Number Six gun's crew, remarking that he thought a cool glance and a frozen smile would be sufficient in such a warm climate.