Harry proceeded to open the lid.

Carr explained to David that _The Three Friends_ was approaching
that part of the coast of Cuba on which she had arranged to land her
expedition, and that in case she was surprised by one of the Spanish
patrol boats she was preparing to defend herself.

"They've got an automatic gun in that crate," said Carr, "and they're
going to assemble it. You'd better move; they'll be tramping all over
you."

David shook his head feebly.

"I can't move!" he protested. "I wouldn't move if it would free Cuba."

For several hours with very languid interest David watched Lighthouse
Harry and Colonel Beamish screw a heavy tripod to the deck and balance
above it a quick-firing one-pounder. They worked very slowly, and to
David, watching them from the lee scupper, they appeared extremely
unintelligent.

"I don't believe either of those thugs put an automatic gun together in
his life," he whispered to Carr. "I never did, either, but I've put
hundreds of automatic punches together, and I bet that gun won't work."

"What's wrong with it?" said Carr.

Before David could summon sufficient energy to answer, the attention of
all on board was diverted, and by a single word.

Whether the word is whispered apologetically by the smoking-room steward
to those deep in bridge, or shrieked from the tops of a sinking ship it
never quite fails of its effect. A sweating stoker from the engine-room
saw it first.

"Land!" he hailed.

The sea-sick Cubans raised themselves and swung their hats; their voices
rose in a fierce chorus.

"Cuba libre!" they yelled.

The sun piercing the morning mists had uncovered a coast-line broken
with bays and inlets. Above it towered green hills, the peak of each
topped by a squat block-house; in the valleys and water courses like
columns of marble rose the royal palms.

"You _must_ look!" Carr entreated David. "It's just as it is in the
pictures!"

"Then I don't have to look," groaned David.

_The Three Friends_ was making for a point of land that curved like
a sickle. On the inside of the sickle was Nipe Bay. On the opposite
shore of that broad harbor at the place of rendezvous a little band of
Cubans waited to receive the filibusters. The goal was in sight. The
dreadful voyage was done. Joy and excitement thrilled the ship's
company. Cuban patriots appeared in uniforms with Cuban flags pinned in
the brims of their straw sombreros. From the hold came boxes of
small-arm