together--subjects still fresh in their memories--until the entrance of
an officer put a stop to the conversation. Frank understood, by this,
that he was the only one of the ship's company who knew any thing of
George's past history.

The change from the cool, comfortable quarters of the Boxer to the hot
wardroom of the ironclad was not an agreeable one; but Frank was not the
one to complain, and he entered upon his duties with his accustomed
cheerfulness and alacrity. He was allowed very little rest. The captain
of the Michigan--which was the flag-ship of the third division of the
squadron--was a regular officer, who believed in always keeping the men
busy at something, and Frank was obliged to be on his feet from morning
until night. The decks were scrubbed every day, the bright work about
the guns and engines cleaned, the small boats washed out, and then came
quarters, and drilling with muskets or broad-swords. After this, if
there was nothing else to be done, the outside of the vessel was
scrubbed, or the chimneys repainted. In short, the Michigan was the
pattern of neatness, and her crew, being constantly drilled, knew
exactly what was required of them, and were ready for any emergency.

For several months little occurred to relieve the monotony of ship-life
beyond making regular trips from one end of their beat to the other; but
when spring opened, gun-boats and transports, loaded with soldiers,
began to assemble, and preparations were made for the Red River
expedition. At length every thing was ready, and one pleasant morning
the gun-boats weighed their anchors and led the way up the river.

Frank stood on deck as the vessels steamed along, and could not help
drawing a contrast between his present position and the one in which he
was placed when he first saw Red River. Then, he and his companions were