A United States Midshipman Afloat

The Navy-Yard at Brooklyn buzzed with its daily turmoil of labor. It was a bright June morning, and the high chimneys of the numerous shops and foundries belched forth flame and smoke. Thousands of begrimed workmen toiled incessantly, hammering, bending and riveting masses of metal, fashioning them into shape to be carried by the steam cranes to be blended into the hulls of waiting battle-ships.

Through this scene of activity two boys walked briskly. Their clothing was new and in the latest style. It clung to their well set up figures, betraying the hand of the military tailor. Each carried a bright leather suitcase to the top of which a cased sword was strapped.

Emerging from the tangle of buildings, the youths glanced about, and an exclamation of pleasure escaped them as a view of their nation’s sea power met their eyes: ten huge battle-ships resplendent in their glassy white and contrasting buff paint lay tied up, filling every foot of the dock frontage.

“Which is ours, Phil?” asked one of the youths, stopping and setting his case down with a sigh of relief.

Philip Perry, as he slowly shifted his bag to his other hand, glanced down the long line of stately defenders.

“There she is, Syd,” he finally replied, pointing his free hand in the direction of one moored at the foot of the street. “The one with three smoke-stacks and eight turrets. What a beauty she is!”

Philip Perry and Sydney Monroe were the names stenciled in bold type on the new traveling bags, and underneath the names in smaller capitals were the letters: U. S. N.

Any one familiar with the navy could have told by a glance that they were midshipmen, just graduated from the Naval Academy at Annapolis and in the distribution of their class to the many ships of the navy, these two had received orders and were on their way to report for duty on board one of the powerful battle-ships lying directly before them.

The four years’ course of study at Annapolis had filled their minds with a store of wisdom, and the rigorous outdoor drills had given to their bodies suppleness and strength. They were a sample of the finished output of the Naval National Academy.

The picturesque life on the ocean would give them ample opportunity to benefit themselves and put to good use their stored-up knowledge. They were on the threshold of a new era, in which their character and professional worth would be valued by the success achieved.

As they walked in silence toward their future home, their minds dwelt on the vast intricacies of this creation of steel, but these thoughts were quickly forgotten as they stepped over the side of the U. S. S. “Connecticut” and reported their arrival to the officer of the deck.

They were wrapped in wonder at the work of getting a battle-ship ready for sea. Ammunition and stores were being taken on board from huge cargo barges with lightning rapidity by hundreds of strong bronzed sailormen. All was activity. The dockyard had completed its work on the steel hull and all hands seemed eager to breathe once more the pure air of the sea.

Five minutes later they were grasping the welcoming hands of their future messmates--those midshipmen who had been graduated from Annapolis one short year ago, yet had mastered the mystery of many things which to the newcomers were as an unopened book.

“The captain will see you both as soon as you are ready, sir,” the marine orderly reported to Phil.

Donning their bright new uniforms, which had been the sole contents of their valises, and buckling on their swords, they were ushered into the captain’s spacious quarters.

They found him brusque and businesslike. A hand to each in turn, with a firm manly pressure:

“Glad to have you with us;” then to the attentive orderly:

“Show these gentlemen to the executive officer,” and the ordeal was over.

Phil and Sydney had no time for conversation during the next twenty minutes, while they found themselves hurried through the rounds of official formality and then sent to their quarters to unpack and be ready for immediate duty.

“They gave me no choice of a roommate, did they, Syd?” said Phil, ten minutes later, as he dived into his trunk and commenced to toss his belongings on to his bunk to have them more handy to stow into the numerous small receptacles located about the narrow room which he and Sydney had been ordered to occupy.

“No, they didn’t,” answered Sydney, with a grin, “but we have stood each other for four years; I guess we can do it for two more.”

The last of their belongings was scarcely stowed when a servant announced that the midday meal was ready in the mess room.

They entered and were greeted by more of their former schoolmates. Phil found his seat next to Marshall, an old friend of Annapolis days, who was anxious to give him all the tips possible on what he could expect in his daily life on a battle-ship. Phil listened intently while he breathlessly recited all the gems of wisdom that came into his head:

“You are in Lazar’s division. It’s a crackerjack, too; you’ve got your work cut out for you. He’s a hustler. He isn’t much liked by the middies because he ‘horses’ us so much, but the captain swears by him. Beaty--you remember old ‘Pike’?--he had your job, but I guess Lazar was too many for him. We sent him to the hospital with nerves a week ago. Some of the fellows saw him yesterday, doing the gentleman act there, looking as pink and fresh as a girl. Hope you will manage all right.”

Phil tried to look cheerful, but Marshall’s quick eye detected something wrong.

“Do you know Lazar? of course you were at the Academy with him, but----”

He stopped and glanced hurriedly into Phil’s face, then dropped his voice:

“Why, it was you that fought him. How unfortunate!” Then musingly, “He is not the man to forget.”

“I can’t believe that he would allow a boy’s quarrel--remember, that was nearly four years ago--to influence his feelings for me now,” answered Phil, gaining but scant comfort from his own words.

He remembered how bitter Lazar had been in his relations to him the few months before the older man graduated and left him in peace. He was but a plebe then. Well, the future would tell.

As soon as the short meal was over Phil went to his room and changed his uniform, donning the oldest he owned, but the bright lace and lustrous braid was in great contrast to the uniforms of those officers and midshipmen who had received their baptism of salt spray, in the year at sea on board the battle-ship, cruising and drilling until their ship was considered to be in efficient condition to join the fleet and compete in all the drills and games that go to make up the very full itinerary of the sailor’s life afloat.

Sydney came in full of enthusiasm, having seen his divisional officer and obtained an idea of what he had to do.

“I have a fine job,” he cried, as he threw his coat on his bunk and started to get out his older clothes. “Four seven-inch guns, all my own; Lieutenant Brand says if I don’t make all hits at target practice, he won’t give me a two-five----”

Then, stopping and catching sight of his chum’s face in the mirror back of the washstand:

“Whatever is wrong, Phil?” he exclaimed anxiously. “You look as glum as an oyster.”

Phil hesitated. Should he confide in his roommate of Annapolis days? Or should he fight it out alone? He felt it was a situation needing every ounce of his manhood and tact. What harm could be done by asking Syd’s friendly advice?

“I have great misgivings, Syd,” he commenced cautiously. “I was prepared for almost anything, but Lazar for my divisional officer had never occurred to me. Do you blame me for looking and feeling glum?”

Sydney’s joyous face became serious in an instant.

“That’s certainly hard luck. Why couldn’t I have been assigned to his division instead of you?” exclaimed he, generously. “I never liked him, but he doesn’t know me from an old shoe, and he has a good reason to know you.” Then, reminiscently, “I can remember his face after your fight with him as plainly as if it were yesterday; the referee called it a draw, but every one knew that you had the better of the fight. He was in the hospital for a week until his face healed up, while you were in ranks at the next formation, with no more marks than I give myself daily shaving.”

“Do you believe he has forgotten, or at least forgiven?” asked Phil.