he would give up his own cabin rather than have a Rough
Rider left behind to die."

"What was his name?" asked Ridge.

"Haven't an idea."

"Do you know the name of the ship?"

"Yes, of course. She is the _Gray Nun_, a converted yacht."

"Rollo Van Kyp's own boat!" cried Ridge.

"You don't mean it?"

"I do." And then Ridge told all that he knew of his friend's splendid
contribution to the service that was doing more than the government
itself towards alleviating the sufferings of the American troops before
Santiago. When he finished, he said, "Of course the skipper recognized
Van Kyp?"

"No, he didn't," replied the other--"at least, not then, for the poor
chap's face was covered to protect it from the sun, and I didn't
mention his name until after he had been taken aboard, when I gave it
to the surgeon in charge. At first I only described him as a Rough
Rider wounded in recovering his troop flag, and the skipper said that
was all he wanted to know about him."

Besides his news of Rollo, the surgeon had brought from Siboney a
number of letters recently arrived there for the Rough Riders, and one
of these was handed to Ridge. Opening it curiously, for he did not
recognize the handwriting of its address, the latter read as follows:

"DEAR MR. NORRIS,--I have just been made very happy by learning from a
friend of yours, a Mr. Comly, who is in the navy, that you are not only
alive and well, but still with your regiment, and have done all sorts
of splendid things. This is news that will cause great rejoicing among
all your friends, including your own family, who have been very anxious
and unhappy concerning you. Major Dodley reported in New Orleans that
you had been placed under arrest for desertion--of course no one who
knew you believed that for a moment--but had escaped and run away.
Your father was so furious that he gave the Major a horse-whipping in
front of the St. Charles, and made him take back every word. Then he
telegraphed and wrote to Tampa; but half of your regiment had left, and
those who remained behind could tell nothing except that you had
disappeared in a very mysterious manner. You may imagine the distress
of your father.

"I had returned to my own home, but Dulce wrote me all about it, and I
received her letter when on the point of starting for New York to offer
my services as a Red Cross nurse, for I didn't feel that I could let
the war go on a day longer without having some shar