A VISIT TO THE NAVY-YARD
There was a rush of business at the news-stand between twelve and one
o'clock, but shortly after one this died away, and inside of half an
hour Phil Newell told Walter that they might be on their way--"If you
are bound to enlist in Uncle Sam's service," he added.
Walter made sure that the paper containing Job Dowling's permission for
him to enter the navy was safe in his coat pocket, and then announced
his readiness to depart. The owner of the stand called up Dan Brown and
gave him a few directions, and in another minute Newell and Walter had
boarded a Charlestown car and were off.
"I haven't been over to the navy-yard for several years," remarked Phil
Newell, as they rode along. "I used to know several of the boys that
were there, but they've grown too old for the service. I reckon the yard
is a busy place these days."
And a busy place it proved to be as they turned into Chelsea Street, and
moved along the solid granite wall which separates the yard from the
public thoroughfare. From beyond came the creaking of hoists, and the
ringing of countless hammers and anvils, for the government employees
were hard at work, fitting out a warship or two and converting several
private vessels into naval craft.
"I don't know if I'm just right about this," went on Phil Newell, as
they headed for one of the numerous buildings near the wall, after being
passed by a guard. "It may be that they want to keep strangers out, now
the war is on, and you'll have to go elsewhere to sign articles. But I
know old Caleb Walton is here, and he'll tell me all he can, and set us
straight."
Walter's heart beat violently, for he began to realize that the step he
was about to take was a serious one. Who knew but that, after getting
into the navy, he might be sent to the Philippines or to the coast of
Spain? Already there was some talk of carrying the war into the enemy's
home waters.
"But I don't care," he said to himself. "If Larry can ship for Hong
Kong, I guess I'm safe in shipping to anywhere. But I do hope I can get
on the _Brooklyn_, or on some other ship of the Flying Squadron."
"Hi, there, Phil Newell! What brought you here, you old landlubber?"
came a cry from their left, and Phil Newell turned as swiftly as his
wooden leg permitted, to find himself confronted by the very individual
he had started out to find.
"Caleb Walton!" he ejaculated joyfully, and held out his bronzed hand.
"I just came in to see you. Here is a young friend of mine who wants to
sign articles under Uncle Sam. Do you think you can take him in?"
"Take him in?" Caleb Walton held out his hand, brown and as tough as a
piece of leather. "Sure we can take him in, if he's sound,--and glad to
get him." He gave Walter's hand a grip that made every bone crack. "So
you want to enlist, eh? Go right over to yonder office, and they'll soon
put you through a course of sprouts," and he laughed good-naturedly.
"But, hold on, Caleb," interposed Newell, as the seaman was about to
show Walter the way. "He don't want to sign articles and go just
anywhere. He would like to get aboard the _Brooklyn_."
"That is what half of all who come here want," answered Caleb Walton. "I
reckon they think Commodore Schley's Flying Squadron is going to settle
the whole war by going after that Spanish fleet said to be at Cadiz, or
thereabouts. Well, the lad better come with me. I belong to the
_Brooklyn_ now."
"You!" came from both Phil Newell and Walter simultaneously.
"I thought you were stationed here?" continued the wooden-legged man.
"I was, but I've just received orders to join the _Brooklyn_ and bring
at least fifteen men with me. It seems they are short-handed and can't
get the men at Norfolk. If this lad wants to go with me, now is his
chance. What's his handle?"
"My name is Walter Russell, sir. But--but are you going to join the
_Brooklyn_ at once?" stammered Walter, never having dreamed that he
would be taken away on the spot.
"Uncle Sam doesn't wait long when he picks his man," replied the old
gunner, for such Caleb Walton was. "Orders were to leave Boston
to-night, but I fancy we'll be kept until to-morrow night, for we are
shy three men, not counting you. Come on." And he led the way to the
building he had previously pointed out.
"He's all right, and you're in luck," whispered Phil Newell, when he got
the chance. "Cotton to Caleb Walton, and you'll have a friend worth the
making." How true were Newell's words the chapters to follow will prove.
The building to which Caleb Walton led them was one in which were
situated the main business offices of the yard. This was now a busy
place, and they had to fairly push their way through the crowd of
seamen, officers, and workmen, who kept coming and going, on one errand
or another. Several telephones were ringing, and from a corner came the
steady click-click of a telegraph sounder.
"Uncle Sam has his shirt sleeves rolled up and is pitching in,"
whispered Caleb Walton. "Here we are. Captain Line, here is another man
for my party."
"He's rather a boy," rejoined Captain Line, as he gave Walter a
searching glance. "Is your father with you?"
"My father is dead," answered Walter, softly. "Here is my guardian's
consent." And he handed over the sheet.
"That seems to be correct. Walton, take him over to the examination
room. And hurry up, for I must catch the four-fifty train for New York."
The "course of sprouts" had begun, and almost before he knew it, Walter
had been passed upon as able-bodied. Time was pressing, and in a quarter
of an hour the youth received a slip of paper signed and sealed by
Captain Line.
"That is good for your passage to Fortress Monroe," he said. "You will
make the journey in company with Walton and a number of others. When you
get there you will report to Lieutenant Lee, who will have you
transferred to the _Brooklyn_,--unless the flagship has already sailed,
in which case you will be assigned to some other ship."
"And when do I start, sir?"
"Walton will have the orders inside of the next hour. Go with him, and
he will tell you what to do." Then came a bang of the curtain to a
roller-top desk, a shoving back of a revolving chair, and in a twinkle
Captain Line had disappeared from view. Truly, Uncle Sam and all under
him were rushing things.
Walter wished very much to visit the dry dock and the great west basin,
filled as both were with vessels in various stages of construction,
alteration, or repair, but he felt if he was to leave that night he must
be getting back to Boston and to his boarding-house, to pack his "ditty
box," as Phil Newell had dubbed his valise, for all such receptacles are
called ditty boxes in the navy.
"All right, Walter, you go ahead," said Newell. "I'll stay with Caleb
and let you know just when you are to leave, so you won't be left
behind." And in a moment more the youth had run out of the navy-yard and
was on board of another car. He made one transfer, and in less than half
an hour entered Mrs. Brown's home.
"Why, Mr. Russell, what brings you?" queried Dan's mother, surprised at
his appearance, for he rarely showed himself during the day excepting at
the dinner and the supper hours.
"I've enlisted, Mrs. Brown, and I'm to get off to-night or to-morrow,"
he answered. "You can let Mr. Keefe have my room now. I'm glad that it
won't be left empty on your hands."
"So am I, Mr. Russell, for a poor widow can't afford to have a room
vacant long," replied Mrs. Brown, with a faint smile. "So you have
really entered the navy? Well, I wish you all the luck in the world, and
I hope you will come out of the war a--a--commodore, or something like
that." And she wrung his hand.
Walter's belongings were few, and soon packed away in his valise. Then
he ran downstairs again and bid Mrs. Brown good-by and settled up with
her. "I'll write to you and Dan some time," he said, on parting.
"Well, did you make it?" was Dan's question, when Walter appeared at the
news-stand.
"I did, Dan." And the protege of Uncle Sam told his youthful friend the
particulars.
"I'm glad you got on the _Brooklyn_," said Dan, with a shake of his
curly head. "She's going to lick the Spaniards out of their boots, see
if she ain't!" And his earnestness made Walter laugh. Dan was but
eleven, yet he read the newspapers as closely as do many grown folks.
The afternoon papers were now coming in and trade picked up, so that
Walter had to help behind the counter. While he was at work a tall,
thin boy sauntered up and gazed at him doubtfully.
"That's George Gimpwell," whispered Dan. "Didn't the boss say something
about hiring him?"
"He did, Dan. Call him over."
The errand boy did so. "Russell wants to see you," he explained.
"I believe you were speaking to Mr. Newell about this situation," began
Walter.
"Well--er--I asked him if he had any opening. I want work the worst
way," sighed George Gimpwell. "Of course, I don't want to do you out of
your job."
"That's all right; I've just enlisted in the navy," replied Walter, and
he could not help but feel proud over the words. "So if you want this
situation, you had best remain around here until Mr. Newell gets back."
"I will." George Gimpwell's face brightened. "So you've enlisted? I
wanted to do that, but I was too tall for my weight, so they told me."
"So you've enlisted?" broke in a gentleman standing by. "Glad to hear
it, young man; it does you credit." And buying a magazine, he caught
Walter by the hand and wished him well. Soon it became noised around on
the block that Newell's clerk was going to join the _Brooklyn_, and half
a dozen, including the clerk of the hotel, came out to see him about it.
In those days, anybody connected with our army or navy was quite a hero,
and somebody to be looked up to, people unconsciously told themselves.
It was after seven o'clock, and Walter was wondering if anything unusual
had delayed his employer, when Phil Newell hove into appearance. "It's
all right, my lad, don't worry," he said at once. "You don't leave until
to-morrow noon. You are to meet Caleb Walton at the New York and New
England railroad depot at exactly eleven o'clock, and all of the others
of the crowd are to be there too. The government wants to get you down
to Norfolk as soon as it can, and will, consequently, send you by rail
instead of by water."
"Hurrah! that will make a jolly trip," cried Walter. "If only I could
stop off at New York, take a run out to Camp Black, and see Ben."
"I doubt if you'll be given time to stop anywhere, time seems to be so
precious. Caleb Walton thinks the Flying Squadron will up anchors before
another week is out."
"Well, I don't care how quickly they leave--after I am on board,"
laughed the youth, much relieved that nothing had occurred whereby he
had been left behind.
George Gimpwell now came up again, and soon he was engaged to take
Walter's place. Phil Newell promised him five dollars weekly, and as
Walter had gotten six, the good-hearted newsdealer put the extra dollar
on Dan's salary, much to that lad's delight.
Eight o'clock found Walter at the stand alone, and it was then that he
penned the letter mailed to Ben, as mentioned in a previous volume,
stating he had enlisted and was making a strong "pull" to get on the
_Brooklyn_. "I won't say I am on her until it's a fact," he thought, as
he sealed up the communication, stamped it, and placed it in the corner
letter-box.
The stand was located in a niche of the hotel, and was open only in the
front, above the counter. At night this space was closed by letting down
two large shutters attached to several hinges and ropes.
"I reckon this is the last time I'll put these shutters down," thought
Walter, as he brought one down on the run. He was about to drop the
second, when a burly man, rather shabbily dressed, sauntered up, and
asked for one of the weekly sporting papers.
"I'm thinking of going to the theatre," he said, somewhat unsteadily,
and now Walter learned by a whiff of his breath that he had been
drinking. "What's the best variety show in town?"
"I'll give it up," said the youth, laughingly. "I haven't been to a show
since I came to Boston, and that's a number of weeks ago."
"Humph! What do you do with yourself nights?"
"I'm here up to eight or half past, and after that I either go home or
to one of the public reading rooms, or to the Young Men's Christian
Association Hall."
"Humph! that must be dead slow." The man lurched heavily against the
counter. "What time is it now?"
"About half past eight. I haven't any watch, so I can't tell you
exactly."
"I've got a watch right here," mumbled the newcomer, still leaning
heavily on the counter. "Here it is. But your light is so low I can't
see the hands. Turn it up."
Walter obligingly complied, and the fellow tried again to see the time,
but failed. "Strike a match," he went on; "I ain't going to no theatre
if it's as late as you say it is."
Walter did not like the man's manner, but not caring to enter into any
dispute, he lit a match as requested, and held it down close to the
timepiece, which lay in the man's open palm.
"Only eight-twenty," grumbled the fellow, slowly. "I knew you was off.
You don't--What's up?" And suddenly he straightened himself and stared
at Walter.
"I want to know where you got that watch," demanded the youth,
excitedly.
"That watch?" The man fell back a pace. "What do you--ahem--why do you
ask that question, boy?"
"Because I know that watch," was Walter's ready reply. "It was stolen
from my uncle in New York only a few weeks ago!"
"Was it?" The man's face changed color. "You--you're mistaken, boy," he
faltered, and fell back still further, and then, as Walter leaped over
the counter, he took to his heels and started down the half-deserted
street at the best speed at his command.