One young man was constantly moving about, alert and active, interested apparently in everything and everybody on board. Most of the Boston men seemed to know him, and exchanged jokes with him as he passed.
"Hullo, Larkin, you here?" called out one. "Better go ashore while there's time—you'll be sea-sick when we get outside!"
"I never yet was sick of seeing!" retorted the young man. "The Bulletin must have a good story on to-day's trip."
"Why didn't they send a reporter that knew his business?" jested another.
"Don't you say anything, Alderman, or I'll fix up an account of you that will make you turn pale when you read it to-morrow morning," said the jolly reporter; and off he went, followed by a chorus of laughter.
Fred Larkin was one of the most valued reporters on the Boston Daily Bulletin. He had risen to his present position, from that of mere space writer, by sheer determination, pluck, and hard work, which characteristics, backed by fine character and a sunny good-humour, made him a favourite with both his superiors and his comrades on the staff. Three years before this sea-trip Fred had been sent to Cuba as war correspondent for the Bulletin, had performed one or two remarkable feats in journalism, had been captured by the Spaniards, and on the very day when he expected to be executed in Santiago as a spy had been exchanged and set free.
Meanwhile on this same perilous journey inland, he had met a young Spanish girl named Isabella Cueva, who subsequently appealed to him for protection, and whom, a few months later, he married. They now had one bright little dark-haired boy, a year old, named Pedro.
"He's a wonderful child," Larkin would assert. "Talks Spanish like a native, and cries in English!"
Besides the company of invited guests on the Retvizan, the officers of the ship-building company, and the Russian crew, there were a number of supernumeraries—butlers, cooks, and stewards, of various nationalities.