This second loader is "Stump." He shows no fear, but draws out the heavy cartridge, handling it as he would a harmless dummy, and passes it to another man and myself.

Carrying it between us--and carrying it gingerly--we hasten to the side, and with a powerful swing, launch the hundred-pound projectile through the open port.
It barely clears the port sill, coming so close to it, in fact, that for one breathless second we think that it will strike.

As the shell passes from view, another sigh of relief comes from the spectators.

"Hay" passes a grimy towel over his perspiring face.
"Whew! that was a ticklish moment," he said, solemnly.

"I'd just as soon not handle any more defective shells." Which exactly represented our sentiments.
Three minutes later Number Eight was barking away at the forts ashore, and the episode of the cartridge that missed fire was a thing of the past.
The bombardment of Santiago had now lasted over an hour.