You'd better move; they'll be tramping all over you." David shook his head feebly.
"I can't move!" he protested.

"I wouldn't move if it would free Cuba." For several hours with very languid interest David watched Lighthouse Harry and Colonel Beamish screw a heavy tripod to the deck and balance above it a quick-firing one-pounder.

They worked very slowly, and to David, watching them from the lee scupper, they appeared extremely unintelligent.
"I don't believe either of those thugs put an automatic gun together in his life," he whispered to Carr.

"I never did, either, but I've put hundreds of automatic punches together, and I bet that gun won't work." "What's wrong with it ?" said Carr.
Before David could summon sufficient energy to answer, the attention of all on board was diverted, and by a single word.
Whether the word is whispered apologetically by the smoking-room steward to those deep in bridge, or shrieked from the tops of a sinking ship it never quite fails of its effect.

A sweating stoker from the engine-room saw it first.
"Land!" he hailed.
The sea-sick Cubans raised themselves and swung their hats; their voices rose in a fierce chorus.
"Cuba libre!" they yelled.
The sun piercing the morning mists had uncovered a coast-line broken with bays and inlets.