Bub went to sleep soon after that, nor did he wake till the gray of
dawn. The engines were pulsing monotonously, and the water, splashing
noisily, told him the decks were being washed down. One sweeping glance,
and he saw that they were alone on the expanse of ocean. The _Mary
Thomas_ had escaped. As he lifted his head, a roar of laughter went
up from the sailors. Even the officer, who ordered him taken below and
locked up, could not quite conceal the laughter in his eyes. Bub thought
often in the days of confinement which followed, that they were not very
angry with him for what he had done.

He was not far from right. There is a certain innate nobility deep down
in the hearts of all men, which forces them to admire a brave act, even
if it is performed by an enemy. The Russians were in nowise different
from other men. True, a boy had outwitted them; but they could not blame
him, and they were sore puzzled as to what to do with him. It would
never do to take a little mite like him in to represent all that
remained of the lost poacher.

So, two weeks later, a United States man-of-war, steaming out of the
Russian port of Vladivostok, was signaled by a Russian cruiser. A boat
passed between the two ships, and a small boy dropped over the rail upon
the deck of the American vessel. A week later he was put ashore at
Hakodate, and after some telegraphing, his fare was paid on the railroad
to Yokohama.

From the depot he hurried through the quaint Japanese streets to the
harbor, and hired a _sampan_ boatman to put him aboard a certain
vessel whose familiar rigging had quickly caught his eye. Her gaskets
were off, her sails unfurled; she was just starting back to the United