"You!" came from both Phil Newell and Walter simultaneously.
"I thought you were stationed here?" continued the wooden-legged man.
"I was, but I've just received orders to join the Brooklyn and bring at least fifteen men with me. It seems they are short-handed and can't get the men at Norfolk. If this lad wants to go with me, now is his chance. What's his handle?"
"My name is Walter Russell, sir. But—but are you going to join the Brooklyn at once?" stammered Walter, never having dreamed that he would be taken away on the spot.
"Uncle Sam doesn't wait long when he picks his man," replied the old gunner, for such Caleb Walton was. "Orders were to leave Boston to-night, but I fancy we'll be kept until to-morrow night, for we are shy three men, not counting you. Come on." And he led the way to the building he had previously pointed out.
"He's all right, and you're in luck," whispered Phil Newell, when he got the chance. "Cotton to Caleb Walton, and you'll have a friend worth the making." How true were Newell's words the chapters to follow will prove.
The building to which Caleb Walton led them was one in which were situated the main business offices of the yard. This was now a busy place, and they had to fairly push their way through the crowd of seamen, officers, and workmen, who kept coming and going, on one errand or another. Several telephones were ringing, and from a corner came the steady click-click of a telegraph sounder.
"Uncle Sam has his shirt sleeves rolled up and is pitching in," whispered Caleb Walton. "Here we are. Captain Line, here is another man for my party."
"He's rather a boy," rejoined Captain Line, as he gave Walter a searching glance. "Is your father with you?"
"My father is dead," answered Walter, softly. "Here is my guardian's consent." And he handed over the sheet.