Phil tried to look cheerful, but Marshall’s quick eye detected something wrong.
“Do you know Lazar? of course you were at the Academy with him, but——”
He stopped and glanced hurriedly into Phil’s face, then dropped his voice:
“Why, it was you that fought him. How unfortunate!” Then musingly, “He is not the man to forget.”
“I can’t believe that he would allow a boy’s quarrel—remember, that was nearly four years ago—to influence his feelings for me now,” answered Phil, gaining but scant comfort from his own words.
He remembered how bitter Lazar had been in his relations to him the few months before the older man graduated and left him in peace. He was but a plebe then. Well, the future would tell.
As soon as the short meal was over Phil went to his room and changed his uniform, donning the oldest he owned, but the bright lace and lustrous braid was in great contrast to the uniforms of those officers and midshipmen who had received their baptism of salt spray, in the year at sea on board the battle-ship, cruising and drilling until their ship was considered to be in efficient condition to join the fleet and compete in all the drills and games that go to make up the very full itinerary of the sailor’s life afloat.
Sydney came in full of enthusiasm, having seen his divisional officer and obtained an idea of what he had to do.
“I have a fine job,” he cried, as he threw his coat on his bunk and started to get out his older clothes. “Four seven-inch guns, all my own; Lieutenant Brand says if I don’t make all hits at target practice, he won’t give me a two-five——”
Then, stopping and catching sight of his chum’s face in the mirror back of the washstand: