LITMIR.BIZ

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a week before the ship was to sail from Philadelphia, two Japanese boys applied for a position on board as stewards. They were dressed neatly, after the custom of their race, but their spotless clothes were threadbare, and as they seemed needy and brought the best of references from Washington families, they were hired at once. It was true that they seemed unable to speak or to understand more than a few words of English, but their slight knowledge of the language appeared to be sufficient for their duties, and the Japanese are known to be the neatest, quickest, most efficient little waiters that can be procured. Many of them, as their employers knew, were engaged in this humble service on United States war-ships, where they gave complete satisfaction.

      As the great vessel swung out upon her course, the two boyish Japs appeared. They had come on board in Philadelphia, and were soon equipped for their work, with white aprons and dark suits. Having with some difficulty made the head steward understand when and for what they had been engaged, they had entered at once upon their duties.

      Nobody took much notice of the little fellows, as they glided silently to and fro, giving deft touches to the lunch table, or assisting a stout alderman to don his overcoat. Only once did they seem disconcerted. That was when a Russian under-officer, with bushy beard and moustache, put his head inside the cabin-door. One of the Japanese started so nervously that he nearly upset a water-carafe on the table. As he adjusted it, he spoke a few words in a low tone to his companion, and both remained with their backs to the door, although the Russian summoned them roughly.

      "Why didn't you go when he called?" demanded the head steward crossly, a minute later, when he had himself given the officer the glass of water he wanted.

      "No speak Russian. No un'erstan'," said the little Jap with a meek gesture.

      "Well, you might have known what he asked for," retorted his superior. "Look sharp now, and attend to your business. You ain't here for fun, you!"

      The steward addressed shot a quick glance at the other, but neither said a word, as they resumed their tasks.

      The Retvizan moved proudly northward, throwing out a great wave on each side of her white prow and leaving a wake of tossing foam stretching far astern. The harbour islands were now dim in the distance and the shore of the mainland might have been that of Patagonia, for all the sign of human life it showed. Now, indeed, the vessel drew in, or, rather, the coastline veered eastward as if to intercept her in her swift course. The Magnolia shore came in sight, with its toy cottages and hotels, as deserted as autumn birds'-nests. Norman's Woe was left behind, backed by dark pine forests, and Gloucester, nestling in its snug harbour, peered out at the passing monster. Almost directly in front the lights of Thatcher's Island reared themselves, two priestly fingers raised in blessing over the toilers of the sea.

      Now the battleship began to quiver, as the increased throbbing of her engines, the monstrous fore-waves, and the volumes of black smoke rushing from her stacks told the excited passengers that she was settling down to her best pace for the crucial test of speed. A government tug was passed, and for ten miles the Retvizan ploughed her way fiercely northward, never deviating a foot to right or left, crushing the waves into a boiling cauldron of seething foam, dashing the spray high into the sunshine, until the second stake-boat, off Cape Porpoise, was passed, and with a long sweep outward she turned, to retrace the ten-mile course more swiftly than ever.

      Fred Larkin pervaded, so to speak, the ship. Note-book in hand, he interviewed the officers, chaffed the Russian Jackies, darted in and out of the cabins, and ranged boldly through the hidden passages below. In process of time he reached the engine-room, smearing himself with oil on the way, from every steel rod he touched.

      No sooner had he entered the room than he was pounced upon by one of the three or four engineers, naval and civil, who were busily watching the work of the great, pulsing heart of the vessel.

      "Larkin! How are you, old fellow?" And his hands were grasped and wrung, over and over, regardless of oil.

      "Holmes! Well, I didn't guess you were here! Shake again!"

      It was Lieutenant-Commander Holmes, Assistant Engineer, who, with several subordinate officers, two of them from the Academy, had been detached by the Navy Department to watch the trip of the Retvizan and report upon it. They mingled freely with the Russian engineers, and compared notes with them as the trial progressed.

      Norman Holmes explained this to the young reporter, who was an old and tried friend.

      "Where is Rexdale stationed?"

      "He's doing shore duty in Washington just now. Between you and me, Fred, I think he'll be a lieutenant-commander before long, and may command one of the smaller vessels on this station – a despatch-boat or something of the kind. I only wish I could be assigned to the same ship! You know Dave and I were chums in the Academy."

      "I know. And the trifling circumstance of each marrying the other's sister hasn't tended to produce a coldness, I suppose! But isn't that an awfully quick promotion for Rexdale? The last I heard of him he was only a lieutenant."

      "Well, we've built so many new ships lately," said Holmes, with his eye on the steam gauge, "that it has been hard work to man them. Two or three classes have been graduated at the Academy two years ahead of time, and promotions have been rapid all along the line. The man that commanded the gunboat Osprey, for instance, is now on an armoured cruiser, taking the place of an officer who has been moved up to the battleship Arizona, and so on. Why, in the course of ten years or more I may be a commander – who knows?" he added, with a laugh.

      "I suppose you hear from 'Sandy' and – what did you fellows call Tickerson?"

      "'Girlie'? Oh, yes, I hear from them. Both are in the East somewhere. Sandy's last letter was from Guam. He's a lieutenant now, and so is Tickerson."

      "Well, I mustn't stay here, bothering you. There's a queer crowd on board – a mixed lot. Seen those little Japs?"

      "No. What are they here for?"

      "Oh, just waiters. But it's odd to see Japanese on a Russian man-of-war, considering that – hullo, here's one of them, now!"

      Sure enough, a small, white-aproned figure came daintily picking his way down into the jarring, clanging, oily engine-room. He seemed a bit troubled to find two of its occupants regarding him intently, as he stepped upon the iron floor.

      "Mist' Johnson no here?" he asked innocently, gazing around him.

      "Johnson? No, not that I know of," replied Holmes. "What's his position."

      "He – he from Boston," said the Jap, after a slight hesitation.

      "Look here," broke in Larkin, in his offhand way, "what's your name, young fellow?"

      The steward looked into the reporter's frank, kindly face, then answered, "Oto."

      "Oto," repeated Fred. "That's a nice easy name to pronounce, if it is Japanese. Well, Oto, how about your chum – what's his name?"

      "Oshima. We from Japan."

      "So I suspected," laughed Fred. "Been over long?"

      The boy looked puzzled.

      "When did you leave home?"

      Oto shook his head. "Un'erstan' ver' leetle English," he said.

      "Well, run along and find Mr. Johnson, of Boston. Norman, good-bye. I'll look in on you again before the end of the trip. Where did Oto go?"

      The little Jap had melted away – whether upward or downward, no one could say, he had vanished so quickly.

      Larkin shook his head and made a few cabalistic curves and dots in his note-book, then reascended the stairs to the upper deck. Through a winding staircase in a hollow mast he made his way to one of the fighting-tops. Singularly enough the other Japanese waiter, Oshima, was there before him. As Fred emerged on the circular platform, the boy thrust a scrap of paper under the folds of his jacket and hurried down toward the deck. Again the reporter made a note in his book, and then gave a few moments to the magnificent view of the ship and the open sea through which it was cleaving its way.

      Directly before and below him lay the forward deck of the Retvizan, cleared almost as completely as if for

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