A May Day in Manila Bay T A Story of a Famous Battle BY ARMSTRONG PERRY HE squadron headed toward the harbor. It was after midnight, but the stars illuminated the swelling ocean from horizon to horizon. The Quartermaster, at the wheel of the flagship, kept an eye on the compass. Over the port quarter, the Big Dipper and the Pole Star were so plainly visible that he might have been able to keep his course without it. The chart showed that less than fifty nautical miles separated the Olympia from Boca Grande. Boca Grande was the main channel into Manila Harbor. In Manila Harbor, if their information was correct, lay seven Spanish ships of war, and twenty-five small gunboats. Besides the flagship which the Quartermaster was steering there were five other ships in the squadron which was making its way into the enemy port. These were superior, in class and in armaments, to the Spaniards' seven, but there were the gunboats which might be transformed into torpedo boats for night attack or defense of the entrance to the bay. Besides these there were the shore batteries. Underneath the water, in all probability, were mines ready to explode at the least touch of a hostile vessel. The Quartermaster felt a chilliness in the region of his spine. He gave the wheel a spoke to starboard and then one to port to make sure that the good old Olympia was minding her helm. He wasn't quite sure that she wouldn't get skittish and pivot, like a horse when he sees a locomotive ahead. The ship obeyed promptly and the Quartermaster put her on her course again. Still those shivers played tag up and down his backbone. He looked out on the bridge, where the Commodore had been pacing slowly back and forth. He had stopped. Against the blue, starsprinkled sky the Quartermaster could make out his clear-cut profile. Calmly as though he were on a summer excursion, the man upon whom depended the safety of the squadron, the honor of the country, the destiny of the nation, was enjoying the night. The Quartermaster straightened up and, in the darkness of the pilot house, silently saluted his superior. He remembered how the Admiral, when only twenty-six, had taken the crew off the sinking Mississippi at Port Hudson, with shot and shell raining upon her. The men on the first boatload had mutinied. They had been saved themselves, but none was willing to go back after the others. "Do you mean to desert your comrades?" asked Dewey. No answer. The eyes of the commander flashed with scorn at their cowardice. "Mr. Chase, draw your revolver," was his brief order. They went then. That was during the Civil War. Four months before the Manila battle Commodore Dewey had been assigned to the com mand of the Asiatic Squadron. For several years he had been doing important land duty, but he asked for sea duty. A good little squadron it was for those days, but it was nearly out of ammunition. The Quartermaster knew something of the Commodore's struggle to get the necessary powder and shells. Letter after letter, cable after cable, he had sent, but not until the very day before war was declared did the Baltimore arrive with enough munitions to risk a battle. All this the Quartermaster remembered as he studied that calm face on the bridge. He remembered, too, the stories he had heard of Dewey as a boy-exaggerated, probably, but interesting. A fighter by nature, they called him. But he was something more than a fighter, too. He had a head for system. From stem to stern every vessel in the squadron was kept as neat as a new pin. If it wasn't, the captain heard of it. There was a place for everything, a time for every duty. From stoker to Commodore every man knew what he was to do under all possible conditions. The organization was as nearly perfect as it was humanly possible to be. Soon the Quartermaster realized that the cold chills had ceased. Under the silent influence of that calm confidence of the man on the bridge he found himself looking keenly forward, anxious to bring his ship within range of fort and fleet. It was 5:05 by the ship's chronometer when the Luneta battery opened fire. Two others joined, in quick succession. Their shots flew wild, well over the Olympia. Dewey smiled and said a word to the signal boys. In prompt response to the flag message which they hoisted, the Bos ton and the Concord each fired two shells. Then the squadron swept by contemptu ously. There was There was no ammunition to waste. At 5:40 the Spanish line of battle was within two and a half miles. Every man on every ship was intensely waiting for the signal to begin the action. Every man within sight of the Admiral watched for some sign of the excitement which they thought he must feel on this, the most important day of his life. His lips moved. There was about as much excitement in his manner as though he were saying "Fine day!" to the Olympia's captain, who stood alertly at his side. The Quartermaster heard his quiet remark and gripped the spokes of the wheel more firmly. "When you are ready, Gridley, you may fire!" An 8-inch gun in the forward turret of the Olympia let out a roar of defiance. It was the signal for the fleet. In five minutes the air was full of sulphurous vapor, the thunder of half a thousand dogs of war, and the shrieking of the flying shells. Zing! A five-inch shell grazed a forestay only twelve feet above Commodore Dewey's head. The signal boys, Trotter and Ferguson, ducked instinctively. The Commodore, looking calmly upward and seeing that no damage had been done, put his glasses to his eyes again to watch the progress of the fight. When the squadron started on its fifth run past the enemy, the Commodore signaled for all hands to have breakfast, in relays. They knew that victory was theirs. As they had had only a cup of coffee since four o'clock, their appetites were good. At 11:16 they stood in to complete their work. They found only one ship to meet them. The plucky little Ulloa fought till the last. Dewey's regret at concentrating the fire of his entire squadron upon her showed in his expression, but Know How to Swim? You Should! war is war. She went down with colors flying. Our ships were hit but not a man was lost. After the victory the commander of a German fleet, not yet convinced that the United States had risen to the rank of a first-class power, persisted in violating the rules of international courtesy. Finally Dewey asked him, bluntly: "Do you wish the United States to consider you as a belligerent?" He assuredly did not, and the Germans did nothing more to embarrass the Americans. It was characteristic of the man. When there was a disagreeable job to be done he did not waste time nor mince words. Evidently because he believed that the A President and Congress had enough to worry about, Commodore Dewey cut the telegraph cable and prevented his difficulty with the Germans from becoming known until after it was settled. After his seagoing days were ended, and the rank of Admiral had been revived and bestowed upon him, he became head of the General Board of the Navy. On January 16 his long and useful life ended. At the Capitol in Washington his body lay in state while all America and representatives of every nation did him honor. The memory of the Vermont boy who fought for his ideals and country from youth through manhood shows to every Scout the true meaning of trustworthiness and loyalty and patriotism. Know How to Swim? BOUT this time of year Tommy Tenderfoot wanders off through the lots some sunny Saturday with his head over his shoulder to see if anyone is watching him from the house. Along toward supper time he comes fur tively back with his hair wet out. He is welcomed or walloped-depending upon the perspicacity or petulance of his parents. Though he may not know it, Tommy has been doing a patriotic duty. He may have done it in a very unwise and unnecessarily obscure manner but the thing itself is all right. Every person in the world ought to know how to swim. The number of drowning accidents in the United States is a national disgrace. A person who cannot swim misses all the fun of a fine exercise and sport. He may at any time be caught in a water accident and other persons may have to rescue him at the risk of their own lives. He may have to see his mother or sister drown before his very eyes and not be able to help them. Water does not always wait for you to go to it-the floods come and get you. Since the organization of the National Most of the cases were water accidents. The Detectives' House Party J' BY RALPH D. PAINE ERRY KENDRICK dismounted from his bicycle and pushed it up the long hill, pausing at the top to sit on a stone wall and wipe his dripping face. As agent for the Duplex Rotary Mousetrap and the Fireless Home Soldering Outfit in his first summer out of high school, a week on the road had given him self-confidence and the venture promised to be successful. He had been calling mostly at farm-houses but now beneath him sparkled a small lake whose shore was fringed with cottages half-hidden in the pines. Several motorboats were passing up and down and the sound of their engines rose faintly to his ears like the tap-tap of busy woodpeckers. Canoes drifted in the shade. Fishermen sat motionless in anchored skiffs. Without enthusiasm Jerry surveyed this pleasant colony but resolved to invade it. City people away for a holiday might think him a nuisance or refuse to take him seriously. He suddenly felt like a vagabond, for his khaki clothes were dusty and needed mending and he intended to get his hair cut in the next town. Coasting swiftly along the winding descent, he shot into a grove where there was a rustic dancing pavilion and so came upon the lake with its little boat-landings and floating platforms. Beside the nearest cottage four boys and girls were playing tennis while others looked on. They were about Jerry's own age and he flushed with a sense of awkwardness as he marched by them. and knocked at the side door. A raw-boned youth in white flannels turned from the tennis net to call out: "Nobody home. Call again. What do you want, anyhow?" This nettled the broad-shouldered Jerry, who could be pugnacious when the occasion demanded. He disliked the other fellow's face, which was unwholesomely sallow, perhaps from too many cigarettes, and his grin was as annoying as his manner of speech. The girls, who seemed much nicer, were regarding the visitor with friendly curiosity. He left the door and, crossing to the tennis court, replied with impressive emphasis: "I am selling mouse-traps, for one thing. They are so simple to understand that I shouldn't wonder if you could learn to set one." "Ha! ha! Why is a mouse when it spins?" laughed the youth. "Here's the guy that can give us the answer. Did you hear him hand me the sharp retort? Run along, Reuben! You are delaying the game.' The other lads snickered but the prettiest girl was evidently displeased. Possibly The Detectives' House Party she had something to do with Jerry's lawless outbreak. Stepping closer, he exclaimed: "If I can't sell you anything I can teach you a thing or two and it won't cost you a cent." The edge of the lake was no more than a few yards distant and the temptation was too urgent to withstand. Whirling the insulting youth about, Jerry grasped him by the collar and the slack of the trousers and started him on the run. Before the victim could dig his heels in and offer resistance his momentum was so great that he had to keep on going. Jerry's stout back and hardened muscles had the propelling power of a steam engine. The object of this punishment emitted a frightened yelp or two and squirmed desperately but his legs continued to move and without a halt he went flying over the bulkhead into four feet of water. "First down without losing the ball," said Jerry as he watched the young man bob to the surface and scramble for the wharf. "I wonder if I wasn't sort of rude and hasty myself?" The prettiest girl was clapping her hands, which somehow eased his conscience. None of the other lads seemed anxious to avenge the wrongs of their dripping comrade and Jerry walked away at a dignified gait. The episode made him unwilling to linger in this part of the summer colony, for parents were apt to be touchy when their children were abused and it would be most inconvenient to suffer arrest for assault and battery. He was more than half inclined to quit the lake altogether but it meant a long climb and his bicycle tires needed an hour's work with cement and tape. In this deep hollow among the hills the afternoon sun had begun to cast wide shadows and the region was unfamiliar. Following the shore road and crossing a bridge, he approached a red bungalow tucked among the trees and facing a beach of white sand. Four men in bathing suits were grouped upon a flat rock, heads together, arms about each other's necks, while they sang in close harmony and with. tremendous gusto "I Am Selling Kindling Wood to Get Along." One of them was stout and bald and another wore a heavy black mustache. Jerry listened to the melodious outburst and said to himself: "That sounds like a hunch to me. No harm in trying to sell them my line of goods." At the beach, however, he stood aside and looked on with fascinated interest. The four men were industriously playing leap-frog and presently one of them was violently grabbed by the arms and legs and carried out into the lake. There they soused him under, roared with laughter as he came up to breathe, and ducked him under again. When he escaped to the beach, they scooped a grave with bits of board, rolled him in and buried him to the chin. He was a tall, melancholy person who never once smiled and Jerry Kendrick felt sorry for him. Mustering courage to accost the stout man, he explained his errand. "Surest thing you know, kid," was the cordial reply. He aimed a finger at the mound of sand and added, "Leave it to Kelly. He pays the freight. Run up to the house and go through his clothes, McClintock. How much? Half a dollar each. Kelly treats us to mouse-traps and solder." "Maybe you will be able to catch something when you go back to New York," came from the unfortunate Kelly. "Wow! There was a warm one, right in the center," cried the stout man. It was entertaining company and they |