"Fred Larkin!" exclaimed Dave. "How on earth did he get on board the Zafiro?"
As soon as Midshipman Bob had reported himself, the war correspondent stepped up with a genial smile and shook hands warmly with the officers on the bridge.
"Fact is, I'm a stowaway, Dave," said he. "That gay young lieutenant on the gunboat would have put me in irons if it hadn't been for Bob Starr. He's a good fellow and stood by me, when I disclosed myself on the Zafiro about twenty miles out."
"Well, what am I to do with you—that's the question?" said Rexdale, laughing in spite of himself at the reporter's nonchalance. "Strictly speaking——"
"Strictly speaking, I've no business on one of Uncle Sam's war-ships without a permit from the Secretary of the Navy, or the admiral of the fleet, at least," said Larkin, with utmost good-humour. "Therefore, we won't speak strictly, until I've had time to look about a little, being under arrest, theoretically."
"I can't very well drop you overboard, old fellow," assented Rexdale, "there being a shark or two around who would gobble up even a newspaper man. But really——"
"Really, I'll leave you before night, old man," interrupted Fred, "so don't worry. Now you and Lieutenant Staples just sit down and tell a fellow what's the news from home—and hereabouts."
"But how did you manage to get on board the Zafiro?" queried Dave.
"Ah, don't ask me, and then you won't know. The movements of some of the heavenly bodies—comets, for instance, and reporters—can only be calculated from their periodic appearances, my son. Didn't you learn that at the Academy?" asked Fred, as the party of officers betook themselves to the after cabin. "Let it suffice your lieutenant-commandership that I really did go on board, and at the proper dramatic moment materialized before the astonished crew. I had a little more sail than I bargained for, not knowing that Mr. Starr had to report to the admiral before coming here."