Of course the "Rumor Committee" were ready with news of destinations galore.

We were to return to our patrol duty, to join the Flying Squadron and threaten the coast towns of Spain, to join the blockading squadron off Havana.

We were to do a dozen or more things just as probable or just as improbable.
A coal barge still lay alongside the starboard side of the ship, when a lighter appeared and made fast to the port side, loaded with express packages, parts of machinery, pipes, and bags of mail for every ship on the Santiago blockade.
"Now we will get those eight bags of mail," said a forecastle man, exultantly.

And from that moment we knew we were going back to Cuba.
But like a good many people who think they know it all--we didn't.
Bunkers, holds--almost every available space, in fact, was filled with coal.
Then began the much dreaded job of painting.

Stages were hung over the side, each manned by two men, and with much reluctance we began to daub the old "Yankee" with gray paint.
The men were unaccustomed to such work, though some could handle the brushes sold in "artist's materials" shops well enough, and they spattered gray paint all over themselves.