“Pardon me—but surely I am not mistaken,—you two young men are brave sailors on board the Beale?”
“Hum; don’t know about the ‘brave sailor’ part of it,” smiled Ned Strong pleasantly, as the dark-skinned speaker halted him and his companion Herc Taylor in the shadow of the gray wall of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. “We are on board the Beale, though, or will be shortly.”
The man who had addressed the two stalwart, sunburned young fellows wearing the natty uniform of Uncle Sam’s sea-fighters flourished his silver-headed cane as if in token of having attained an object.
“The Beale—the torpedo-boat destroyer?” he asked, as if he were anxious to make quite sure of his ground.
“Yes, sir,” said Ned, briskly taking up his suit-case, as if about to start off again. He had set down the piece of baggage when the stranger first addressed them.
“One moment,” demanded the fashionably dressed first speaker, who spoke with a trace of foreign accent, “since you are on board that craft, you must come with me.”
Ned looked astonished at the other’s brusque manner of address. As for Herc Taylor, the red-headed, his freckles shone pinkly under his tan.
“I guess you’re a foreigner, sir, aren’t you?” he asked gently.
“Why, yes, senor,” the other twisted his little waxed mustache nervously, “but I——”