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 States. As
he came closer, a crowd of sailors sprang upon the forecastle head, and
the windlass-bars rose and fell as the anchor was torn from its muddy
bottom.

"'Yankee ship come down the ribber!'" the sea-lawyer's voice rolled out
as he led the anchor song.

"'Pull, my bully boys, pull!'" roared back the old familiar chorus, the
men's bodies lifting and bending to the rhythm.

Bub Russell paid the boatman and stepped on deck. The anchor was
forgotten. A mighty cheer went up from the men, and almost before he
could catch his breath he was on the shoulders of the captain,
surrounded by his mates, and endeavoring to answer twenty questions to
the second.

The next day a schooner hove to off a Japanese fishing village, sent
ashore four sailors and a little midshipman, and sailed away. These men
did not talk English, but they had money and quickly made their way to