“The cargo will be hoisted out of the hold this afternoon, convenient for droppin’ into the boats. If you are able, will ye stand by to boss a gang of Cubans? Ye need not bear a hand yourself. Just talk to them and make signs with the butt end of that old Springfield.” “Yes, sir. I’ll manage to keep them busy.” The news ran through the ship. By noon the patriots were seething with excitement. They were about to set foot on the beloved soil of Cuba, to be quit of the hateful, perfidious ocean. They became incredibly valiant. These forty men would face a Spanish army. They talked of marching to attack fortified cities. Magically revived, they scoured the rust from their weapons and brandished them with melodramatic gesticulation. They sang the battle-hymns of the revolution and wept at sight of the blue, misty mountain range of the distant coast. Jack Gorham regarded them critically. One gang of Cubans went into the hold and another was stationed on deck. The heavy cases of rifles and cartridges were passed up through the hatchways and piled along the rail. Captain O’Shea sauntered hither and yon, once halting to remark in chiding accents: “Better not bang those square boxes about so free and careless. ’Tis nitro-glycerine for making dynamite ashore.” “I’ll land it myself,” said Gorham. “It will come in handy for blowin’ up Spanish troop-trains.” Toward nightfall the _Fearless_ reduced speed and loafed along over a smooth sea at a distance of perhaps thirty miles from the coast. The crisis of the voyage had come. O’Shea must run his ship into a trap and get her out again. As soon as darkness was at hand the _Fearless_ began the final dash for the coast. Johnny Kent had crawled from his bunk and wearily set himself down in the engine-room doorway to await orders. “If anything goes wrong to-night, it’ll happen all of a sudden,” he grumbled to his first assistant. “Takin’ chances of getting bottled up in a bay don’t please me a mite.” “There is nothing in sight, chief. It looks like an easy landing. The skipper knows his business.” “But it would be just our fool luck to run into trouble with these two ladies aboard. Women complicate every game they draw cards in. But that Miss Hollister is certainly a queen, ain’t she, Jim?” “She’s old enough to be my mother,” ungallantly observed the youthful assistant. “And I’m ’most old enough to be your grand-daddy, you godless, disrespectful sculpin,” was the angry retort of Johnny Kent. “And I’m man enough to break you in two across my knees.” The rash young man wisely held his tongue, and the chief engineer murmured to the world at large: “Refinement and culture do make a heap of difference in folks. Now, if I had chased after refinement and culture when I was young, instead of incessantly pursuin’ rum, riot, and rebellion on the high seas--but what’s the use?”