It was evening, the evening of the day on which the "Yankee" sailed from
Tompkinsville bound out on her maiden cruise as an auxiliary ship of
war. The afternoon had passed without event, save that which attacks the
amateur sailor when he first feels the heaving swell of old ocean. The
crew had shaken into its place, and the men of the watch on deck were
commencing to appreciate their responsibilities.

The ship was quiet, save for the faint chug-chug of the propeller under
the stern and the occasional clang of a shovel in the fire room deep
down in the innermost reaches of the ship. The sun had vanished in a
hazy cloud which portended a stiff breeze, but the wind was still
gentle, and, as it swept across the decks from off the port quarter, it
seemed grateful indeed to those who came from below for a breath of air.

Orders had been issued to darken the decks. The running lights of red
and green were still in the lamp room, and, except for a soft, rosy
glow from the binnacle-bowl, there was a blackness of night throughout
the upper part of the ship. Cigars and pipes and cigarettes had been
tabooed, and doors were opened in the deck houses only after the inside
lights had been lowered to a flickering pin point.

Up on the forward bridge Captain Brownson stood talking in a low voice
to the executive officer, Lieutenant Hubbard. The lurching swing of the
ship caused them to sway back and forth against the rail and a metallic
sound came from a sword scabbard suspended from the captain's belt. The
presence of this sword, betrayed by the clatter it made, told a secret
to several sailors gathered under the lee of the pilot house, and one
said, in an excited whisper:

"There's something up, Chips. The old man is fixed for trouble. I'm