"Well, we've built so many new ships lately," said Holmes, with his eye on the steam gauge, "that it has been hard work to man them. Two or three classes have been graduated at the Academy two years ahead of time, and promotions have been rapid all along the line. The man that commanded the gunboat Osprey, for instance, is now on an armoured cruiser, taking the place of an officer who has been moved up to the battleship Arizona, and so on. Why, in the course of ten years or more I may be a commander—who knows?" he added, with a laugh.
"I suppose you hear from 'Sandy' and—what did you fellows call Tickerson?"
"'Girlie'? Oh, yes, I hear from them. Both are in the East somewhere. Sandy's last letter was from Guam. He's a lieutenant now, and so is Tickerson."
"Well, I mustn't stay here, bothering you. There's a queer crowd on board—a mixed lot. Seen those little Japs?"
"No. What are they here for?"
"Oh, just waiters. But it's odd to see Japanese on a Russian man-of-war, considering that—hullo, here's one of them, now!"
Sure enough, a small, white-aproned figure came daintily picking his way down into the jarring, clanging, oily engine-room. He seemed a bit troubled to find two of its occupants regarding him intently, as he stepped upon the iron floor.
"Mist' Johnson no here?" he asked innocently, gazing around him.
"Johnson? No, not that I know of," replied Holmes. "What's his position."