“Hum; don’t know about the ‘brave sailor’ part of it,” smiled Ned Strong pleasantly, as the dark-skinned speaker halted him and his companion Herc Taylor in the shadow of the gray wall of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. “We are on board the _Beale_, though, or will be shortly.” The man who had addressed the two stalwart, sunburned young fellows wearing the natty uniform of Uncle Sam’s sea-fighters flourished his silver-headed cane as if in token of having attained an object. “The _Beale_--the torpedo-boat destroyer?” he asked, as if he were anxious to make quite sure of his ground. “Yes, sir,” said Ned, briskly taking up his suit-case, as if about to start off again. He had set down the piece of baggage when the stranger first addressed them. “One moment,” demanded the fashionably dressed first speaker, who spoke with a trace of foreign accent, “since you are on board that craft, you must come with me.” Ned looked astonished at the other’s brusque manner of address. As for Herc Taylor, the red-headed, his freckles shone pinkly under his tan. “I guess you’re a foreigner, sir, aren’t you?” he asked gently. “Why, yes, senor,” the other twisted his little waxed mustache nervously, “but I----” “I guessed it,” went on Herc serenely, “because in the United States we have a foolish habit of saying ‘please’ if we wish anything done.” “Well, ‘please,’ then, senor. Come, I wish to talk with you, please. I know a place, not equal to the Hotel Espanola, perhaps, but where we can get a good drink----” “Count us out then,” snapped Ned sharply, “we don’t drink.” The stranger placed his thumb and forefinger together, elevated them to a level with his chin and, after gazing at them for a second, gave a light: “Pouf!” “He’ll blow away if he does that again,” muttered Herc. But apparently the man of the waxed mustache had been only taking this way of dismissing any possible offense he might have caused. He bowed low. “Ah, well, I have made a mistake, I see. Of course not. Zee brave sailors of the Uncle Sam do not drink, nevaire. Perhaps, then, you will do me the honor of accompanying me to that drug store at the corner. I see they sell ice-cream sodas there. Will you try one of those?” This was touching Herc Taylor in a weak spot. He gazed at his companion inquiringly. But Ned Strong’s eyes were riveted on the small wicket gate which opened in the long, gray-painted wall, a few feet from where they were standing. The wall inclosed the humming hive of activity known as the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Inside the gate stood a marine, sharply scanning all arrivals. It was his duty to protect the gateway to one of Uncle Sam’s ship hospitals, where everything from a rib to a rivet can be adjusted or replaced, even on the largest Dreadnoughts.