that all Spaniards are cowards—even if the authorities are responsible for blowing up the Maine. They'll give us a good shake up, if they get the chance."
"I don't think so," said Caleb Walton. "They are not as up-to-date as we are. I know we can beat 'em at gun practice every round."
"Don't brag. Wait till the war is over."
"I'm not bragging—only talking facts, sergeant. I have a friend at the Brooklyn Navy-Yard, and he wrote to me about the gunners on the Vizcaya, when that Spanish warship was lying off Staten Island this spring. He said they were—well tired, I reckon we'd call it,—and didn't have any drills worth mentioning all the while the ship was there Now you know that won't do."
"Oh, yes, I know a man must keep at his drills if he doesn't want to grow rusty."
"Besides that, you must remember that four-fifths of their sailors don't enlist for themselves. They are shanghied out of the seaport towns, made drunk, and taken on the ships like so many cattle, and they are lucky if they get away inside of ten or fifteen years. And in addition the cat-o'-nine tails is always dangling afore their eyes.
