Comba ordered out the band of the 17th Infantry and the good
ship fled up the bay, in momentary expectation of a smashing shot from
the enemy, to the strains of "There'll be a hot time." What little
excitement there was displayed itself in a feverish searching of the
bay with field-glasses for signs of the enemy. The older officers,
upon whom the responsibility was resting, sat upon the quarter-deck,
smoking their pipes and discussing the situation. The captains quietly
moved about, assigning stations to their companies, in case of attack,
with the view of trying the effect of the modern rifle upon the
armored sides of a Spanish man-of-war, and two of the younger officers
took advantage of the catchy air which the band was playing to dance a
two-step on the quarter-deck. So the evening wore away. The moon went
down. The myriad little stars came out, twinkling in the deep blue
sky, and at last both officers and men, tired of looking for an enemy
who was never to appear, turned in for such sleep as they could get,
leaving a small guard on deck to keep a lookout. When they awoke next
morning, the ship was in the deepest part of the nearest slip, moored
fast by her guy-ropes to the dock.
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