“Where in the world did you drop from?” asked Ben.
“We were talking about you not five minutes ago,” put in Larry. “We were wondering how soon we’d hear from you.”
“I came from Chemulpo,” answered Gilbert, shaking first one hand and then another. He turned to the master of the Columbia. “How are you, Captain Ponsberry? How are you, Grandon?”
“I’m fust-rate, Mr. Pennington,” came from the captain. “How are you? But I needn’t ask, fer ye look as fit as a fiddle. I reckon as how them Roossians haven’t worried ye, none, after all, have they?”
“Haven’t they, though? Just you wait until I spin my yarn, as you sailors call it. I’m mighty glad you stayed at Nagasaki.”
“So I said as how you would be,” said Tom Grandon, who was a bosom friend of the captain and privileged to speak at all times. “I said we’d better await orders.”
“Have you seen any of the fighting?” questioned Larry, his eyes bright with anticipation.
“Yes, I saw the sinking of the Russian warships at Port Arthur. I thought of you and the fight in Manila Bay at the time, Larry.”
“Wish I had been there,” declared the young sailor. He thought of his own days behind one of the big guns, while serving under Admiral Dewey, as already recorded by me in “Under Dewey at Manila.”
“But I thought you said you had come from Chemulpo,” put in Ben.