“That’s a fine young gentleman,” O’Neil confided to a brother petty officer, as he watched Phil put his shoulder against a twelve-inch shell and guide it clear of an iron hatch top. “Do you see the way the boys are working? As if they were to get shore leave at the end of this job. It’s a pity to see him spoil them bright new clothes, but when I tried to help him he told me he wanted exercise.” Phil had found his thoughts very unpleasant companions as he had watched the work progress, and now doing the manual labor of a leading man, he had forgotten, for the time at least, the sombre reflections that had, like spectres, come into his mind. Would this man attempt to ruin him? And could he do so if he so wished? He considered going to the captain and asking to be assigned to another division, stating his reasons, but he saw immediately how childish it would seem to that busy officer. A boys’ quarrel, long ago forgotten, he would call it. Phil wished it were so. CHAPTER II UNDER ARREST Phil awakened the next morning at an early hour. Hurriedly dressing, he went on deck. His sleep had refreshed him and his mind was less ready to dwell on the dark side of his life on board ship. He believed when he and Lazar had become better acquainted the old grudge would be overshadowed in the intimacy of the life on the ocean. With muster-roll and station bills neatly copied in his note-books, he was impatient for the bugle to sound the call to “quarters,” when he would meet his division for the first time. He watched with interest the scene about him. Petty officers and men were busily engaged putting the finishing touches to the clean deck and bright brass work of the vessel. Others were using a clothes-brush carefully on their neatly fitting blue uniforms or giving a parting rub to their broad shoes. The gunners’ mates guarded their huge guns jealously, occasionally rubbing an imaginary spot of rust or dirt. While the bugle call was being sounded on each of the many decks, he was an interested spectator of the magic effect of the clear notes. Confusion seemed to melt away into the most perfect order as men took their places in ranks abreast the guns they served. Lazar stood facing his division,--fifty well set up, youthful men. Back of him were the turret guns for which his division formed the crews. Across the deck the marine guard was paraded, the military bearing of the soldier-sailors contrasting with the easy pose of the picturesque sailormen about them. The executive officer was at his station across the deck from Lazar. Such is the formation for quarters on board a war-ship of the navy. Each divisional officer musters his men, inspecting carefully, in order that the standard of neatness may be maintained. He then reports the result to the executive officer, receives his orders for drill and returns to his station.