CHAPTER XII. BETWEEN TWO FIRES.
"I say, Farmer, can't we have a little target-practice and hit something accidentally—even that Chinese junk over there would do—so as to stir up some sort of a scrap?"
Lieutenant Staples, addressing his commander familiarly by the old Academy nickname, yawned and stretched his arms in most undignified fashion as he spoke. The two officers were on the bridge of the Osprey, which lay at anchor off Chefoo. A gentle breeze barely stirred the placid waters of the bay, and the sun gave a hint of the torrid days that were to come.
"I'm tired of sitting here, like a toad in a puddle, aren't you?" added the tall lieutenant, straightening himself up a little as a boatswain's mate crossed the open deck below him.
"There is a kind of a sameness about it," laughed Rexdale, adjusting a pair of field-glasses. "What sort of a craft is that yonder, Tel?"
"H'm—something under steam, anyway. Can you make her out through the glass?"
"Unless I'm mistaken, it's the Zafiro," said the commander, working the glasses for a focus. "Yes, it's the despatch-boat, bringing Starr back from Tokio, no doubt."
Ten minutes later Bob scrambled up over the rail, followed by a young man in civilian's clothes.