He had been literally born upon the ocean, and from his earliest remembrance had known how to row and sail a boat, to swim and face the ocean in sunshine and tempest.
All his companions could see that Mark’s learning aboard ship had come from stern experience rather than teaching, and here, too, Scott Clemmons felt his inferiority, and it but added another cup of bitterness to the draught he was forced daily to swallow, for still did the “poor fisher lad” prove his right to be his master.
The voyage had been mapped out for the cadet cruiser, and after a run down the beautiful Chesapeake she rounded the capes, and began to roll upon the blue waters of the Atlantic.
Her first port was to be New York, and thither all letters had been ordered to meet her, while many of the relatives and friends of the young sea-rovers were there assembled to meet them and wish them a bon voyage upon their cruise across the seas.
Hardly had the anchor been let fall in the North River when a boat with one oarsman came off bearing a visitor.
“Merrill, take an observation of that fellow and see if it is not Barney Breslin,” said Bemis Perry, pointing to the occupant of the boat.
“It certainly is; but can he be coming aboard here?” asked Mark in surprise.
“He is; but if there’s a man aboard who speaks to him he ought to be given the cut direct.”
Mark said nothing, and soon after the boat was hailed by the officer of the deck.
“I have letters for Cadet Scott Clemmons, and it is important for him to receive them at once,” was the answer to the hail.