The interruption came from a short, stocky, little blue-jacket, lounging nearby. He had been reading a book on gunnery, but the raised voices of the Dreadnought Boy's detractors had aroused his attention. His blue eyes twinkled rather humorously, as he eyed the agile, long-limbed Merritt and his sallow, dark-haired companion.
"Hullo, Benjamin Franklin; were you rubbering on our conversation?" said Merritt, assuming an indignant expression.
"Ben Franklin" was the nickname given to the studious tar whose right name was Stephen Wynn.
"It didn't take any 'rubbering,' as you call it, to overhear you," said Wynn quietly; "if you take my advice, when you want to say mean things about Ned Strong or his chum, you'll lower your voice aboard this ship. They've got quite a few friends."
"Just the same," maintained Merritt, "the chap isn't all he sets up to be. He's got some secret, like all such fellows."
"I guess his secret is hard work and attention to duty," said Wynn rather shortly, returning to his reading.
"You don't seriously think that there is any chance of Strong's giving you a tussle for the first place?" asked Ray Chance.
"Frankly, I don't. But there is always a possibility of mistaking one's man. I'm wise enough to know that."
"But you have arranged in some way to make success certain?"
Merritt gave Chance a quizzical look.