"Why, everything's coming our way now!" exclaimed the World manager
in ecstasy. "We've got the transports to starboard at Siboney, and
the war-ships to port at Santiago, and all we'll need to do is to sit
on the deck with a field-glass, and take down the news with both
hands."
Channing followed these events with envy. Once or twice, as a special
favor, the press-boats carried him across to Siboney and Daiquiri,
and he was able to write stories of what he saw there; of the landing
of the army, of the wounded after the Guasimas fight, and of the
fever-camp at Siboney. His friends on the press-boats sent this work
home by mail on the chance that the Sunday editor might take it at
space rates. But mail matter moved slowly and the army moved quickly,
and events crowded so closely upon each other that Channing's
stories, when they reached New York, were ancient history and were
unpublished, and, what was of more importance to him, unpaid for. He
had no money now, and he had become a beach-comber in the real sense
of the word. He slept the warm nights away among the bananas and
cocoanuts on the Fruit Company's wharf, and by calling alternately on
his Cuban exiles and the different press-boats, he was able to obtain
a meal a day without arousing any suspicions in the minds of his
hosts that it was his only one.
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