"His share is put into a fund that is used toward paying naval officers, seamen, and marines the pensions due them. These pensions are, of course, not as large as those of the army, but they are considerable." "Well, I hope we strike a big prize, or half a dozen little ones," said Walter. "On a pay of eleven dollars a month a fellow can't expect to get very rich." "Do your duty, lad, and you may rise before the war is over." The old gunner caught Walter by the arm. "Come with me," and Caleb Walton arose, and led the way to the smoking-car. Wondering what was meant by this movement, Walter followed. "I want to have a quiet talk with you," went on Caleb Walton, after they were seated in a secluded corner. "Do you smoke?" "No, sir." "You're just as well off. But I must have my pipe." Caleb Walton drew forth a brier-root, filled it with a dark mixture of tobacco, and lit it. "Ah, that's just right. And now to business." And he threw one leg over the other. For a moment he gazed thoughtfully at Walter, and the boy wondered what was coming next. He was satisfied that it must be of more than ordinary importance, otherwise the old gunner would not have asked him to come to the smoking-car, away from their companions. CHAPTER VI A GLIMPSE OF THE PRESIDENT "You see it's this way," began Caleb Walton, after gazing for a moment at Walter. "Phil Newell is your friend, isn't he?" "Yes, indeed!" responded the boy, warmly. "Exactly--likewise he is my friend, too. We served together for years, and I sometimes looked up to Phil as a kind of elder brother. Well, after you left us at the navy-yard he and I had a long talk about you, and he made me promise to keep my eye on you--do you understand?" "I think I do." "Now, keeping an eye on you is out of the question unless you are placed where I can see you." "But aren't we both to go aboard of the _Brooklyn_?" cried Walter. "Yes, according to the course we're steering now. But both being on the _Brooklyn_ doesn't cover the bill. I expect to be in charge of one of the guns--will be if Bill Darworthy is still in the hospital. Now if you enter as a mere boy, or even as a landsman, it may be that you'll never get around to where I am. You must remember that the _Brooklyn_ is a big ship, and all the men on her are divided into classes,--officers, petty officers, seamen, gunners, marines, and so on,--and one class is pretty well separated from another." "I presume that is so, but I never thought of it before." "Even seamen are divided into seamen gunners, apprentices and the like, and if you went on as a mere boy you might not see me once a week, unless we happened to be off duty at the same time." "I see what you are driving at, Mr. Walton; you--" "Avast there, Walter, no mister for me, please. I'm plain Caleb Walton." "Well then, Walton, you want to get me attached to that gun you hope to have placed in your charge?" "Now you've struck the bull's-eye, lad. The thing of it is, can I manage it?"