“Woof!” exclaimed Ned’s chum, “that would have been a fine dessert. Come on, ship-mates, I’m going back to the ship and sleep in the magazine. It’s safer than it is ashore.”
“For you it is, anyhow,” chuckled a tar. “But hullo, mates, where are all the ’rickshaw men? They’ve all gone.”
“Scared away, I reckon,” laughed another, a man off the Idaho. “Tell you what we’ll do, we’ll be our own ’rickshaw pullers.”
“Hooray!” cried the men; and amidst a great to-do and lots of laughter the blue-jackets placed themselves between the shafts, the fortunate riders (whose turn at pulling was to come later on) shouting with glee.
“Get up there!” roared Ben Franklin at Herc, and off the red-headed youth darted at top speed.
“Whoa! Whoa!” bawled the philosophic sailor, “not so fast! Take in sail, mate! Shorten sail! Rocks ahead!”
The warning came too late. One wheel of the ’rickshaw struck a rock at the edge of a little bridge and Ben Franklin, amidst the roars of the tars, went sky-rocketing into space over the rail of the bridge. He landed in a lot of soft mud and injured nothing but his dignity.
“You’re a horse that needs breaking,” he said to Herc, as he took his seat once more in the ’rickshaw; and, despite all Herc’s pleadings, he was compelled to pull the mud-stained Ben all through the streets of Yokahama as a punishment for his skylarking.
The ’rickshaws were left at the ’rickshaw stand near the docks where it was certain that their owners would reclaim them. Then the liberty parties embarked and were towed back to their ships by the various steamers.
So ended a stay in Yokahama, not a quarter of the details of which we have had space to describe. The fleet there, as everywhere, met unbounded enthusiasm and entertainment, and thousands of post cards and photographs were sent home to the United States by the Jackies. A big naval parade and a review of the fleet by the local dignitaries served still further to impress upon the Far East Uncle Sam’s place and dignity as a sea-power.