“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: “Whatever is wrong, Phil?” he exclaimed anxiously. “You look as glum as an oyster.” Phil hesitated. Should he confide in his roommate of Annapolis days? Or should he fight it out alone? He felt it was a situation needing every ounce of his manhood and tact. What harm could be done by asking Syd’s friendly advice? “I have great misgivings, Syd,” he commenced cautiously. “I was prepared for almost anything, but Lazar for my divisional officer had never occurred to me. Do you blame me for looking and feeling glum?” Sydney’s joyous face became serious in an instant. “That’s certainly hard luck. Why couldn’t I have been assigned to his division instead of you?” exclaimed he, generously. “I never liked him, but he doesn’t know me from an old shoe, and he has a good reason to know you.” Then, reminiscently, “I can remember his face after your fight with him as plainly as if it were yesterday; the referee called it a draw, but every one knew that you had the better of the fight. He was in the hospital for a week until his face healed up, while you were in ranks at the next formation, with no more marks than I give myself daily shaving.” “Do you believe he has forgotten, or at least forgiven?” asked Phil. “You or I would have long ago,” replied Sydney thoughtfully, “but Lazar always seemed so vindictive to me; maybe his Latin blood makes him so. Jules Lazar is not an appropriate name for a forgiving nature; it sounds very belligerent to me.” “You certainly are comforting,” smiled Phil, as he started to leave the room to report to his divisional officer and find out for himself what the outward signs of friendship or enmity might tell. With many misgivings he went up the companion ladder leading to the quarter-deck. As his foot touched the clean white deck, he raised his hand to his cap in salute to the flag. Standing near the great twelve-inch turret, managing the labor of filling the spacious storerooms and magazines, was Lazar, the spy-glass in his gloved hand identifying him as the officer of the deck, in charge of the progress of work on the big fighter. Phil stepped smartly up to him and saluted. Lazar turned slowly toward him. His brow contracted imperceptibly as he returned the salute of the midshipman. “Mr. Perry reports to you, sir, as junior officer of the fourth division,” Phil said in the official tone he had been taught to use at Annapolis. His eyes unwaveringly sought the restless energetic face of his divisional officer.