



Produced by Greg Bergquist, Martin Pettit and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)






The North Pacific

_A Story of the Russo-Japanese War_

_By_
Willis Boyd Allen
Author of "Navy Blue" and "Cleared for Action"

[Illustration]

_New York_

E. P. Dutton & Company
31 West Twenty-third Street
1905


TO MY FRIEND

COMMANDER WILLIAM H. H. SOUTHERLAND, U. S. N.

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED


[Illustration: "MAN OVERBOARD!"]


COPYRIGHT, 1905
BY
E. P. DUTTON & CO.

Published, September, 1905

The Knickerbocker Press, New York




PREFACE.


As in the preparation of _Navy Blue_ and _Cleared for Action_, the
author has taken great pains to verify the main facts of the present
story, so far as they are concerned with the incidents of the great
struggle still in progress between the empires of the East and the West.
He acknowledges most gratefully the assistance received from the office
of the Secretary of the Navy, from ex-Secretary John D. Long, and from
Commander W. H. H. Southerland, now commanding the U. S. Cruiser
_Cleveland_, Commander Austin M. Knight, President of the Board on Naval
Ordnance, and Chief Engineer Edward Farmer, retired.

W. B. A.

BOSTON, June, 1905.




CONTENTS

CHAPTER                                    PAGE
    I. THE TRIAL OF THE "RETVIZAN"            1

   II. MAN OVERBOARD!                        16

  III. SEALED ORDERS                         29

   IV. UNCLE SAM'S PACKING                   43

    V. OTO'S STRANGE VISIT                   53

   VI. A SCRAP IN MALTA                      67

  VII. O-HANA-SAN'S PARTY                    84

 VIII. A BATCH OF LETTERS                    93

   IX. AT THE CZAR'S COMMAND                102

    X. THE FIRST BLOW                       114

   XI. IN THE MIKADO'S CAPITAL              125

  XII. BETWEEN TWO FIRES                    137

 XIII. WYNNIE MAKES A BLUNDER               146

  XIV. THE ATTACK OF THE "OCTOPUS"          156

   XV. UNDER THE RED CROSS                  165

  XVI. THE LAST TRAIN FROM PORT ARTHUR      175

 XVII. DICK SCUPP'S ADVENTURE               184

XVIII. OSHIMA GOES A-FISHING                202

  XIX. AMONG THE CLOUDS                     218

   XX. THE DOGGER BANK AFFAIR               235

  XXI. THE FALL OF PORT ARTHUR              248

 XXII. ON BOARD THE "KUSHIRO"               260

XXIII. TRAPPED IN MANCHURIA                 274

 XXIV. THE LITTLE FATHER                    286

  XXV. LARKIN RETIRES FROM BUSINESS         297

 XXVI. "THE DESTINY OF AN EMPIRE"           308

XXVII. ORDERED HOME                         319




ILLUSTRATIONS

                                         PAGE
"MAN OVERBOARD!"            _Frontispiece_ 24

"OTO CLIMBED THE RAIL LIKE A MONKEY"       64

IN STRANGE WATERS                          82

PICKED UP BY THE SEARCHLIGHT              119

THE SINKING OF THE "PETROPAVLOVSK"        164

THE END OF THE TRAITOR                    231

ON THE DOGGER BANK                        244

THE OSAKA BABIES                          253




THE NORTH PACIFIC.




CHAPTER I.

THE TRIAL OF THE "RETVIZAN."


It was a clear, cool afternoon in early September, 1901. In the country
the tawny hillsides were warmed to gold by the glow of the autumn sun,
while here and there a maple lifted its crimson torch as if the forest
were kindling where the rays were the hottest. Brown, golden, and
scarlet leaves floated slowly downward to the ground; flocks of
dark-winged birds drifted across the sky or flitted silently through the
shadows of the deep wood; the call of the harvester to his straining
team sounded across the fields for a moment--then all was still again.
But for the creak of a waggon, the distant bark of a dog, the fitful
whisper and rustle of the wind in the boughs overhead, the whirring
chatter of a squirrel, the world seemed lost in a day-dream of peace.

Only a few miles away the air was rent by a clamour of discordant
sound. Ponderous hammers beat upon plates of iron and brass; machinery
rumbled and shrieked and hissed at its work; a thousand men, labouring
as if for their lives, pulled, pushed, lifted, pounded, shouted orders,
warnings, replies above the din that beat upon the ear like a
blacksmith's blows upon an anvil. From the tall chimneys poured endless
volumes of black smoke that were reflected in the blue waters of the
river and mimicked by innumerable puffs of steam. The place was like a
volcano in the first stages of eruption. A vast upheaval seemed
imminent. Yet the countless toilers worked securely and swiftly,
fashioning that dread floating citadel of modern warfare, the
Battleship.

On this same afternoon, at the outer gate of the Cramp Shipbuilding
Works, two strangers applied for admission, presenting to the watchman a
properly accredited pass. They were young men, under the average
stature, dark-skinned, and almost notably quiet in appearance and
manner. Although their dress was that of the American gentleman, a very
slight accent in their speech, their jet-black hair, and a trifling
obliquity in their eyes, would have at once betrayed their nationality
to a careful observer. He would have known that they were of a people
famous for their shrewdness, their gentle manners, their bravery, their
quick perceptions, and their profound patience and tireless resolution
in accomplishing their ends--the "Yankees of the Orient"--the Japanese.

The watchman glanced at them carelessly, rather impressed by the
visitors' immaculate attire--both wore silk hats and black coats of
correct Broadway cut--and asked if they wanted an attendant to show them
about the works. They said, "No, thank you. We shall remain but short
time. We can find our ways"; and, bowing, passed into the yard.

Their curiosity seemed very slight, as to the buildings and machinery.
With light, quick steps they passed through one or two of the most
important shops, then turned to the river-side, and halted beside the
huge ship that was on the stocks, almost ready for launching. Here for
the first time their whole expression became alert, their eyes keen and
flashing. Nobody paid much attention to them as they passed along the
walk, scrutinising, it would seem, every individual bolt and plate.

"A couple o' <DW55>s!" remarked one workman to another, nodding over his
shoulder as he carried his end of a heavy steel bar.

At the gangway the visitors met their first obstacle. A man in undress
uniform, with a full beard and stern countenance, waved them back. "No
admittance to the deck," he said briefly.

The two Japanese bowed blandly, and spoke a few words together in soft
undertones and gutterals, as incomprehensible to a Western ear as the
language of the Ojibways. Then they bowed again, smiled and said "Thank
you, sir," and moved away. The Russian officer watched them sharply
until they disappeared around the bows of the vessel, muttering to
himself under his bushy moustache.

Once out of sight the languor and mild indifference of the strangers
vanished. They spoke swiftly, with excited, but graceful gestures. Then
one of them pointed to the snowy curve of the battleship's prow, above
their heads. There, gleaming in the sunset light, shone the word, in
gold letters,


     [Cyrillic: RETVIZAN]


"RETVIZAN," murmured the other; "RETVIZAN." Adding in his own language,
"She will have her trial trip late in October, sailing from Boston.
Then--we shall see!"

"We shall see."

"_Sayonara, Retvizan!_" said the first speaker with just a trace of
mockery in his tone, as the two turned toward the gate. As they passed
through, on their way out, they bowed and smiled to the gate-keeper.
Once more they were suave, languid little gentlemen of fashion,
travelling for pleasure.

It was eight o'clock on the morning of October 21st when the last
tug-load of "distinguished visitors" scrambled up the steep ladder to
the deck of the _Retvizan_, which had lain all night in President's
Roads, Boston Harbour, waiting for her trial trip. In five minutes more
the battleship was under way, the smoke rolling from her three huge
funnels as she forged ahead slowly, on her way to the open sea.

It was an oddly composed crowd that gathered forward of the great turret
from which projected two twelve-inch guns. The crew consisted of Russian
"Jackies," in man-of-war rig; but the spectators were the invited guests
of the builders from whose control the ship had not yet passed. There
were lawyers, naval officers, engineers, and politicians, with one or
two officials of the city and State government--all bound to have a good
time, whether the _Retvizan_ should prove slow or fast. They buttoned
their overcoats up around their throats--for the day was chilly, and the
draught made by the vessel as she gathered speed was sharp--and in
little knots, here and there, joked, laughed, and sang like boys on a
lark.

One young man was constantly moving about, alert and active, interested
apparently in everything and everybody on board. Most of the Boston men
seemed to know him, and exchanged jokes with him as he passed.

"Hullo, Larkin, you here?" called out one. "Better go ashore while
there's time--you'll be sea-sick when we get outside!"

"I never yet was sick of seeing!" retorted the young man. "The
_Bulletin_ must have a good story on to-day's trip."

"Why didn't they send a reporter that knew his business?" jested
another.

"Don't _you_ say anything, Alderman, or I'll fix up an account of you
that will make you turn pale when you read it to-morrow morning," said
the jolly reporter; and off he went, followed by a chorus of laughter.

Fred Larkin was one of the most valued reporters on the Boston _Daily
Bulletin_. He had risen to his present position, from that of mere space
writer, by sheer determination, pluck, and hard work, which
characteristics, backed by fine character and a sunny good-humour, made
him a favourite with both his superiors and his comrades on the staff.
Three years before this sea-trip Fred had been sent to Cuba as war
correspondent for the _Bulletin_, had performed one or two remarkable
feats in journalism, had been captured by the Spaniards, and on the very
day when he expected to be executed in Santiago as a spy had been
exchanged and set free.

Meanwhile on this same perilous journey inland, he had met a young
Spanish girl named Isabella Cueva, who subsequently appealed to him for
protection, and whom, a few months later, he married. They now had one
bright little dark-haired boy, a year old, named Pedro.

"He's a wonderful child," Larkin would assert. "Talks Spanish like a
native, and cries in English!"

Besides the company of invited guests on the _Retvizan_, the officers of
the ship-building company, and the Russian crew, there were a number of
supernumeraries--butlers, cooks, and stewards, of various nationalities.

About 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 <DW61>s
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 <DW61> 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 <DW61>s?"

"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 <DW61>, 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 <DW61> 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 action. Most of the visitors had
withdrawn from the keen wind to the shelter of the cabin, where,
doubtless, the question of luncheon was already exciting interest.
Beneath the fighting-top was the bridge, where the highest officials on
the ship were watching her progress. Just beyond was the forward turret,
with its projecting guns, their muzzles peacefully closed.

The vessel now reached the first stake-boat once more, and turning,
again started over the course at half-speed, for the tedious process of
standardising the screw; that is, determining how many revolutions went
to a given rate of speed. The engineers were busy with their
calculations. Larkin joined the hungry crowd in the cabin, giving a last
look at the blue sea, the misty shore line, and the dim bulk of
Agamenticus reared against the western sky.

When the _Retvizan_ passed Cape Ann, on her homeward trip, the great
lamps on Thatcher's Island were alight, and the waves sparkled in the
glow. It was nearly nine o'clock that evening when the chains rattled
through the hawse-holes, in the lower harbour, as the battleship came to
anchor. Many had been the guesses as to her speed. Had she come up to
her builders' expectations? Had she passed the test successfully? These
were the questions that flew to and fro among the passengers, crowding
about the gangway beneath which the tug was soon rising and falling. At
the last moment the approximate result of the engineers' calculations
was given out. The ship had responded nobly to the demand upon her
mighty machinery. Splendidly built throughout, perfectly equipped for
manslaughter and for the protection of her crew, obedient to the
lightest touch of the master-hand that should guide her over the seas in
warfare or in peace, the _Retvizan_ had shown herself to be one of the
swiftest and most powerful war-ships in the world. For twenty miles, in
the open ocean, she had easily made a little over eighteen knots an
hour.

In the confusion of going on board the tug and disembarking in the
darkness, no one observed the two Japanese waiters, who must have
forgotten even to ask for their wages. Certain it is that Oto and Oshima
were among the very first to land on the Boston wharf, and to disappear
in one of the gloomy cross-streets that branch off from Atlantic Avenue.




CHAPTER II.

"MAN OVERBOARD!"


"Well, we're out of the harbour safely, Captain," said Executive Officer
Staples with a sigh of relief, as he spread out the chart of the
Massachusetts coast and glanced at the "tell-tale" compass. "No more
trouble till we get down by the Pollock Rip Shoals."

"Anybody would think you had been taking a battleship out from under the
enemy's guns," laughed Lieutenant-Commander David Rexdale. "Don't talk
about 'trouble,' Tel., while it's daylight, off a home port, in good
weather!"

The two were standing in the chart-room, just behind the bridge of the
U. S. gunboat _Osprey_, as the vessel, leaving Boston Outer Light
behind, headed slightly to the south of east. Rexdale, as his old chum
Holmes had predicted, was now in command of the _Osprey_, and was taking
her to Washington for a practice trip, on which the crew would be
drilled in various manoeuvres, including target-practice. Lieutenant
Richard Staples, his executive, had been the captain's classmate at
Annapolis. He was lanky and tall, and at the Academy had soon gained the
sobriquet of "Telegraph Pole," or "Tel.," for short; a name that had
stuck to him thus far in his naval career. He was a Californian, and,
while very quiet in his manner, was a dangerous man when aroused--as the
upper-class cadets had discovered when they undertook to "run" him.
Rexdale was from the rural districts of New Hampshire, and was known to
his classmates as "Farmer," a term which was now seldom applied to the
dignified lieutenant-commander.

The _Osprey_--to complete our introductions--was a lively little member
of Uncle Sam's navy, mounting several six-pounders and a four-inch
rifled gun, besides smaller pieces for close quarters. She had taken
part in the blockade of Santiago, and while not as modern in her
appointments as some of her bigger and younger sister-ships, had given a
good account of herself in the stirring days when Cervera's fleet was
cooped up behind the Cuban hills, and made their final hopeless dash for
freedom. Rexdale was in love with his little vessel, and knew every
spar, gun, plate, and bolt as if he had assisted in her building.

On the way down the harbour, they had passed the _Essex_ and
_Lancaster_, saluting each with a bugle-call. Besides the two officers
mentioned, it should be added that there were on board Ensigns Dobson
and Liddon, the former a good-natured little fellow, barely tall enough
to meet naval requirement as to height; the other a finely educated and
elegant young gentleman who had attended a medical college before
enlisting, and whose fund of scientific and historical knowledge was
supposed to be inexhaustible. He wore glasses, and had at once been
dubbed "Doctor," on entering the Naval Academy. These, with Paymaster
Ross, Assistant Surgeon Cutler, and Engineer Claflin, made up the
officers' mess of the _Osprey_.

It was a fair day in June, 1903. The sunlight sparkled on the summer
sea. Officers and men were in the best of spirits as the gunboat, her
red, white, and blue "commission pennant" streaming from her masthead,
sped southward past the long, ragged "toe" of the Massachusetts boot.

At noon Rexdale dined in solemn and solitary state in his after cabin.
The rest of the officers messed together in the ward-room, below decks,
and doubtless Dave would have been glad to join them; but discipline
required that the commanding officer, however familiarly he might
address an old acquaintance in private, should hold aloof at mealtimes.
He was waited upon by two small Japanese men, or boys, who had easily
obtained the situation when the vessel went into commission at the
Charlestown Navy Yard, where she had remained for some months, docked
for overhauling and thorough repairs. The two cabin stewards were gentle
and pleasant in their manners, conversant with all their duties, and
spoke English fluently. Their names were on the ship's papers as Oto and
Oshima.

"Oto," said Rexdale, when the dinner was finished, "call the orderly."

"Yes, sir."

The marine was pacing the deck outside the cabin-door. On receiving the
summons he entered and saluted stiffly.

"Orderly, ask Mr. Staples to step this way, if he has finished his
dinner."

Another salute, and the man turned on his heels and marched out.

"Mr. Staples," said the commander, as the former came in, "at four bells
we will have'man overboard' drill. We shall anchor to-night about ten
miles off Nantucket. I shall come on the bridge and con the ship myself
when we sight the Shovelful Lightship, and I shall be glad to have you
with me, passing the Shoal. The next time we go over this course I shall
let you take the ship through the passage yourself."

"Very well, sir." And the executive, being in sight of the waiters and
the orderly, as well as the surgeon, who just then passed through the
cabin, saluted formally and retired.

On deck, forward and in the waist of the ship, the men were busy at
various tasks, burnishing brass-work, making fast the lashings of the
guns, overhauling rigging and such naval apparatus as the warrant
officers knew would be needed on this short cruise. But few of the
crew--over a hundred in all--were below, although only the watch were
actually on duty.

In passing one of the seamen, who was polishing the rail, Oshima, on his
way to the galley, accidentally hit the man with his elbow.

"Clear out, will you?" said the seaman with an oath. At the same time he
gave the little <DW61> a shove that sent him reeling.

"Oh, take a fellow of your size, Sam!" cried one of the watch standing
near.

"He ran into me! I'll take him and you, too, if you say much," retorted
the first speaker morosely.

Two or three of the men paused on hearing the angry words. The little
stewards were favourites on board, although the enlisted men looked down
on their calling.

Oshima's dark eyes had flashed at the rough push and the sneering reply
of the sailor. He brushed his neat jacket where the former's hand had
touched it. Then he said quietly, "You can strike, Sam Bolles, as an ass
can kick. But you could not throw me to the deck."

"Couldn't I?" snarled Sam, dropping his handful of oily waste and
springing to his feet. "We'll see about that, you ----!" and he called
him an ugly name.

Glancing about to see that no officer was watching, Oshima crouched low,
and awaited the burly seaman's onset. Sam rushed at him with
outstretched hands and tried to seize him around the waist, to dash his
slight antagonist to the deck. Had he succeeded, Oshima's usefulness to
the United States Navy would have ended then and there. A dozen men
gathered about the pair, and more than one uttered a warning cry to the
Japanese. They need not have been alarmed, however, for the safety of
their small comrade.

Just as Sam's burly paws closed on his shoulders, Oshima's dark, thin
little hands shot out. He caught the seaman's right arm, gave a
lightning-like twist, and with a cry of pain and rage the big fellow
went down in a heap on the deck. As the men applauded wildly and swung
their caps, the <DW61> looked a moment at his fallen foe with a smile of
contempt, then turned away, for the master-at-arms, hearing the noise of
the scuffle, was approaching. Sam, however, was wild with rage.
Scrambling to his feet, he darted upon his late antagonist, caught up
the small figure in his powerful arms, and before anybody could
interfere, tossed him over the rail into the sea.

Lieut. Commander Rexdale, pacing the quarter-deck and congratulating
himself on the fine run the _Osprey_ was making, was suddenly aroused
from his professional meditations by the sound of cries from the forward
part of the ship. Annoyed by this breach of discipline, he called
sharply to one of the ensigns, who was standing near, watching a distant
steamer through his glass, "Mr. Dobson, step forward, please, and find
out what that disturbance is among the men----"

But before Dobson could reach the head of the ladder another confusion
of shouts arose, followed immediately by a rush of footsteps. At the
same time the commander felt the tremor of the screw's motion die away,
under his feet.

"Man overboard?" exclaimed Rexdale, with a vexed frown. "I gave orders
for the drill at four bells, and three bells were struck only a few
minutes ago. Where is Mr. Staples?"

The executive officer was at that moment seen hurrying aft, but the
Jackies were before him. They tumbled up the steps like mad, and flung
themselves into the starboard quarter-boat, which had been left swinging
outside from the davits for the purposes of drill. Already the man on
watch at the taffrail had cut away the lashings of a patent
life-preserver and sent it into the sea, where it floated with signals
erect, far astern. The propeller was lashing