"Boy, you're too plucky," exclaimed Caleb, catching him by the shoulder. "You ought to be flogged for your daring. Let me see your hands. Ah, just as I thought; both of 'em blistered. Go and put some sweet oil on 'em, and a bit of flour. I'll bet the end of Polly is red-hot." "Well, it is pretty hot," replied Walter, and then he was glad enough to follow Caleb's advice, for both hands smarted a good deal. Soon Si joined him, to get something for his hands also. The _Colon_ had now drawn out of range, so firing would have been a useless waste of ammunition. Down to the gunners came the order: "Cease firing." And a moment later, "All hands on deck for an airing." What a laughing and shouting ensued as the jackies poured up, to secure the best viewing places they could within the ship's regulations. Hot, tired, ready to drop from exhaustion, they shook hands with each other, sang, laughed, and whistled. "Three cheers for Commodore Schley!" came suddenly from somebody, and the cheers came with vigor, and a tiger, and then came a cheer for Captain Cook and a cheer for the _Oregon_, coming up with ever increasing speed. The _Oregon's_ men cheered in return, and for a moment one would have thought this was holiday-making instead of grim war. The _Colon_ was close to shore, while the _Brooklyn_ and the _Oregon_ lay from two to three miles out to sea. Some miles farther westward the Cuban shore slopes southward to Cape Cruz. If the _Colon_ kept on her present course she would have to make for the cape, thus coming down toward the American warships. "We will catch her there," said Commodore Schley, confidently. The _Oregon_ was flying the signal "Remember the _Maine_" from her masthead, and as she drew still closer to the _Brooklyn_, another shout of approval went up. The two warships would fight the _Colon_ between them, if only they could get within range. It was now noontime, and a hasty mess was served all around, and the men continued to air themselves, something easy to do with the ponderous ship speeding the waters at an eighteen-knot rate. Suddenly from the _Oregon_ came the boom of a thirteen-inch gun, and the shell fell just astern of the _Colon_, sending the water up like a fountain. The battle was again on. "Now for it!" cried Caleb, as the Spanish warship turned southward down the coast, and the Polly spoke up as fiercely as at any time during the contest. "The Spaniards are losing heart!" came the cry, a few minutes later. "They ain't doing half the firing they were!" It was true; the _Colon_ was running short of ammunition, and her officers saw what a hopeless fight a contest with the _Brooklyn_ and _Oregon_ would prove to be. With shot and shell falling all around him, Captain Moreu hauled down his flag and sent his ship ashore at Rio Tarquino.