Just then Scott Clemmons passed before him, and he recalled the change since that meeting at B——, when his toy ship had been broken.
Then Clemmons, the son of a rich man, coming of a family of aristocrats, had seemed to tower far above him.
But to-day how different, for Clemmons was his vanquished rival.
Then he was, as his rival had so often said, a poor fisher lad, unknown to all except the few who admired his pluck as a young sailor.
Now he stood here a victor, honored by his commanders and comrades, the recipient of costly gifts from the head of the navy, and one high in rank.
Then, little over a year before he was poor, his mother with scarcely the money to buy medicine, and now she had sent him money and had plenty remaining—what seemed a small fortune to her and to him, for he was economical, though not mean, and not a dollar of his pay had he squandered.
The past was behind him, the future opened brightly before him.
Three more years[1] and he would win his fight for fame, if all went well.
He had vowed to win, and that vow must be kept, come what might, against all odds.
“Only death shall conquer me!” broke sternly from his lips, as the midshipman finished his reverie and turned again toward his roommate, whose very presence he had forgotten.