"They are magnificent vessels of their class.

Look what Cushing did with a slow steam launch and a powder can on the end of a stick." "The case was different." "Yes, but----" "Cushing was an American," interrupted the boy convincingly.
There was silence for awhile and we lolled in the port, gazing idly at the black spots in the gloom representing the blockading fleet.

Between us and the shore was the "New Orleans," the faint tracery of her masts just showing above the distant background of the hills.

The dampness in the air had increased, and a dash of rain came in the open port.
"What were you doing at the mast this morning, 'Kid' ?" I asked by way of variety.
"Had a mustering shirt in the lucky bag." I heard the boy chuckle.

There was an escapade behind the remark.
"You know that wardroom Jap with the bad eye ?" "Yes." "It was his shirt." "But how----" "It was this way.