Not until the last midshipman had left the ground did the sailor and marine emerge from their hiding place.
"Well, of all the game fights!" muttered the marine.
"Me? I'm hoping that some day I fight under that gallant middy," cried the sailor.
"Who is this Mr. Darrin?" asked the marine, as the pair strolled away.
"He's a youngster—third classman. But he's one of the chaps who, on the cruise, last summer, went over into a gale after another middy—Darrin and his chum did it."
"There must be fine stuff in Mr. Darrin," murmured the marine.
"Couldn't you see that much just now?" demanded the sailor, who took the remark as almost a personal affront, "My hat's off to Mr. Darrin. He's one of our future admirals. If I round out my days in the service it will be the height of my ambition to have him for my admiral. And a mighty sea-going officer he'll be, at that!"
In their enthusiasm over the spectacle they had seen, the sailor and the marine talked rather too much.
They were still talking over the battle as they strolled slowly past one of the great, darkened buildings.
In the shadow of this building, not far away, stood an officer whom neither of the enlisted men of the Navy saw; else they would have saluted him.