IT is not exceeding the limits of strict accuracy to assert that there was not a man on Admiral Evans's fleet who was not glad to leave Trinidad. The statement must not be taken as reflecting in the least upon the officials of the place. No greetings to a fleet of foreign warships could have been more cordial and sincere than those given by Governor-General Jackson and his assistants. There was no reserve about it. It was genuine and from the heart.

But the Trinidad people did not wake up. Half a dozen merchants flew American flags above their shops, perhaps fifty persons all told came out to visit the ships, the clubs were thrown open to officers and now and then some of the residents might drive or stroll down to the waterfront to take a look at the fleet.

There were two reasons for this apparent indifference. One was that the ships were anchored fully five miles from town. It was like anchoring a fleet of vessels at Tompkinsville and expecting the citizens of Manhattan to flock to the Battery to gaze at them or hire small boats to go down to see them. A more powerful reason was that the Christmas horse races were on. That meant three days of closing the shops at noon, three days of betting, three days of sharpening wits to contest with three card monte men, roulette men, wheel of fortune men; three days when the most prosperous of the large Hindu population, in all their picturesque garb, women with rings in noses, bracelets on arms and legs, brilliant hued gowns, and men in their turbans and one garment of a sheet made into coat and trousers—came into town; three days when the society of the place imitated the Epsom and Derby customs and drove into the inner enclosure with their drags and other turnouts, and had luncheons and visits; three evenings of promenading and dining at the Queen's Park Hotel.

How could any one expect the people to get enthusiastic over an American fleet under such conditions? The people had talked for weeks, they said, over the arrival of the fleet, but straightway when it was announced that the races would be held at the same time—well, how can any person attend to two important things at one and the same time? Didn't one of the daily morning newspapers give a quarter of a column of space to the fleet on the second day after its arrival? Talk about enterprise in journalism! Trinidad is the place to go to see a specimen of it.

Admiral Evans expected to sail at 8 o'clock on Sunday morning, December 29, but there was some delay in coaling and he did not get away until 4 P. M. The night before sailing the flagship signalled this message to the entire fleet, to be published on each ship the next day:

That farewell banquet was fine. Every officer and man on the fleet appreciated its kindly and sincere tone and every man was ready to vote Gov. Jackson a brick. There was just one comment made throughout the fleet, and it might as well be set out here, with no intention of raking over the ashes of the past offensively. That comment was:

"There is nothing of Swettenham about Jackson. He's all right!"

The letter from Gov. Jackson sustains what has been said at the beginning of this letter; the official welcome was cordial, sincere and without reserve.

The trip to Rio was marked by two celebrations, New Year's Day and the visit of Neptune on crossing the line. One should not think, because these letters record considerable hilarity on three occasions—Christmas and the other two—all within two weeks, that such is the normal condition on an American warship. These celebrations happened all about the same time—that is all. The prevailing condition on a warship is anything but hilarity, as will be revealed later in these letters.

New Year's, like Christmas, was a general holiday for the fleet. There were quarters in the morning as usual, but after that there was no work and the smoking lamp was lighted all day. Extra things at dinners were provided. As was general on shore, the new year was welcomed with due ceremony and celebrations on the ships. As soon as it was night on December 31 it was evident that something would be doing by midnight.

There was no concerted programme. About 10 P. M. the officers began to drift one by one, into the wardroom. It was a very decorous assemblage. Its members began to tell stories. Now and then a song would start up, and all would join in. A fruit cake made by a fond mother at home was brought out. In some way the eggnog cups seemed to steal out on a side table. Then came a mixture that touched the spot and unloosened the vocal powers.

It wasn't long before the "Coast of the High Barbaree," "Avast! Belay! We're Off for Baffin's Bay," and other songs were being rolled out to the swaying, dipping of the ship in the swells that the strong eastern trades were booming up against the port side. Naval Academy songs were shouted. One officer thoughtlessly sat in the barber's chair in the rear of the wardroom. A great rush was made for him and he was tousled and rumpled and pulled and hauled. He squirmed out of the grasp of his tormentors and then the "Coast of the High Barbaree," with "Blow High, Blow Low," was rolled out again.

Soon it became evident that a New Year's song must be sung. The Christmas song of the Vermont, with the highrolling, lob-e-dob swing in it, was taken as a model and there were a few minutes for adaptation to the Louisiana. When it had been rehearsed properly, it was decided to send a special New Year's greeting to the Vermont's wardroom, because the officers of that ship had made a Christmas serenading call on all the ships on Christmas night in Trinidad. One of the Vermont's officers is Dr. F. M. Furlong. His mates on Christmas Day had nominated him for president and so informed the Louisiana's wardroom when they reached this ship. He was made to make a speech of acceptance and in apparent seriousness he grew eloquent over his chances and his platform. The New Years greeting from the Louisiana to the Vermont was something like this:

"The Louisiana's wardroom sends happy New Year greetings to the Vermont's wardroom and pledges the solid W. C. T. U. vote to Dr. Furlong. Back districts, from the grassy slopes of the Green Mountains to the saccharine depths of the Pelican canebrakes, all heard from. We're happy and well. Happy New Year! Happy New Year! Happy New Year to you!"

The greeting was sent to the bridge to be flung into the air on the illuminated semaphore signals at five minutes to midnight. Then came the final rehearsals of the New Year song, and just as the signals were sending the greeting to the Vermont a dozen lusty officers stole up to the quarterdeck and sang their song softly to see if it was all right. Then they climbed on the upper deck, stepped quietly along the gangway to the forward bridge. They were as silent as Indians. One of them had a great Christmas palm branch fully twelve feet long. One by one they sneaked up the port ladders and stowed themselves far out on the port side of the bridge. All was quiet until eight bells was struck and then eight bells more for the New Year. A great burst of song startled the officer of the deck just as the last letter of the message to the Vermont had been flashed. The song was:

The great palm branch was swung around to the danger of utter disarrangement of engine room signals, and the officer of the deck growled out something about a lot of wild Indians. A high flinging dance followed on the bridge, with the Happy New Year song shouted twenty times or more.

"Get out of here!" ordered the bridge officer.

"All right; we'll serenade the Captain!" shouted the merry crew. Down to the lower bridge, where the Captain has his emergency quarters while at sea, they went. The Captain got a good dose of noise, but being a discreet man he said never a word. There was a rumor that he wasn't inside at all and that, knowing what to do on certain occasions, he had decided to remain in his private rooms below, where not even unofficial knowledge of any high jinks could reach his ears.

Then the procession started for the quarterdeck, and leaning far over the rails on the starboard side with the stiff trade wind blowing the sound from the megaphoned throats of the singers, happy New Year's greetings were sung to the Georgia, 400 yards back and to starboard. That ship heard it easily.

Then came a procession through the Louisiana. The members of the crew were slung in their hammocks, but numerous noises of catcalls and horns and shouts told that no one was asleep. At every section of every division on every deck the sailors were greeted with song. They sat up and cheered. It was fine to have a party of officers come around and wish you a happy New Year. Every mess of the ship received a call. When the warrant officers' mess was reached there was a brilliant display of pajamas and—well, in print one musn't go into particulars too fully. Regulations must be obeyed strictly even when you're having a good time. All the regulations were obeyed—several times, and then some—in that big roundup.

Didn't the bos'n sing:

and then go into the forty-seven verses about life on the "Old Colorado"? Didn't the electrical gunner join with the chief engineer in giving down the twenty-seven bells song? Didn't the carpenter dance a highland fling? Didn't the scholarly warrant machinist from the Boston Tech. twang a banjo and set the pace for the "Old New York" and the "Dear Old Broadway" songs? And then didn't someone remark that "dear old Kim" hadn't been seen in all the parading that night? A rush was made for Kim's room but it was barricaded.

"Come out, Kim!" was the order.

"Not on your life," was the response.

And then, for revenge, didn't the crowd sing a song about Kim? Every man who knows anything about the United States Navy knows Kim, the genial paymaster's clerk, who sits in the junior officer's mess to keep the youngsters in proper submission, and who has trained a generation of officers in things naval; Kim, who has sailed the high seas in the United States Navy for a quarter of a century and knows so much about the ships and officers that he wouldn't dare to tell it all and ought to be made an Admiral for his knowledge and his discretion; Kim, who has to salute many a man with a star on his sleeve and some of them with two stars, the minute he sees them, and then can call them Bill and Jim and Tom in private; Kim, the best beloved, all around good fellow on the ship; yes, everybody knows Kim. It isn't necessary to print the full name of this obliging, hard working autocrat of the paymaster's office. This is the song that greeted him:

Howls of glee from warrant officers, from petty officers, from hundreds of hammocks greeted the song. Kim chuckled but wouldn't come out. Finally the siege could be resisted no longer and out came Kim in full regulation pajamas and the din was terrific. It was a dance all around and some more strictly regulation things to drink. Happy New Year was sung for the 273d time and then came a further inspection of the ship. Wasn't it time for the dinner for New Year's Day to be tested in the cook's galley? Wasn't there as fine a specimen of the genus turkey as graced any board in the United States all ready to be tested? And wasn't it tested until nothing but the rack was left?

The fire rooms had to be visited and down slippery ladders with the machinery chugging and rolling and plunging the piratical crew stole. Where men were sweating in front of furnace doors in watertight compartments the greeting was sung and the words "Happy New Year" were chalked on furnace doors. Perhaps the engines lost a revolution or two, or the steam slowed off just a bit and the officer of the deck wondered why he was unable to keep his position of 1,200 yards from the flagship exactly, but what did it matter?

And when the rounds were all completed and the pirates assembled in the wardroom for their final song and final—well, never mind that—didn't a messenger from the bridge come down with a signalled message from the Vermont with a toast that was being offered in the Vermont's wardroom:

Every ship was having a celebration something like that. It's impossible to give the details because when a big fleet is going along at the rate of ten knots an hour and fighting a mean Amazon current as well, and the semaphores and other signals are being kept busy with official messages it isn't exactly good form for newspaper landlubbers to ask to be allowed to inquire what was done on the other ships, matters which, even if told unofficially, would not look exactly attractive all written out in a signal book, because you can't put much fun in a signal book entry. There must have been a good deal of the happy-go-lucky spirit on some of the ships, for on two or three of them the rollickers got at the siren whistles and blew them. That is something that might prove serious to a fleet sailing as this is, because the blowing of siren whistles, except at a certain hour of the day, when all the whistles are tested—they call the noise the loosening of the dogs of war—means grave danger and it is time to act at once. But New Year's came in happily all around and when the fun was over the one thought of the rollickers was that within a week Neptune would come aboard and after that there would be a long dry spell.

When quarters were sounded a little after 9 o'clock on New Year's morning all hands appeared. The usual formality marked the occasion. The Captain came up and looked precisely as if his ship had been as quiet as a grave all night; the executive officer answered salutes with an incisive manner, as each officer approached and reported his division "all present or accounted for"; the members of the crew gave no hint that they had seen any officer roaming about the ship only a few hours before in a free and easy manner violating all ordinary traditions of a naval officer's dignity. And as for the warrant officers, when they saluted and gave you an icy stare, as if they might have met you somewhere once upon a time but really had quite forgotten your name, you felt relieved and glad that those two or three red streaks on your left eye ball had escaped general notice, and then it was that you felt like writing an apostrophe to discipline in the American Navy.

Of the trip itself to Rio—the mere sailing of it—there is not much to record. It was done in squadron formation—two lines of warships, with the supply ships Glacier and Culgoa bringing up the rear midway between the lines. For six days off the upper part of South America there was quite a heavy swell and a strong Amazon current that retarded the progress of the ships to some extent.

One day the swells were so heavy as to make the sea moderately rough. Every ship in the fleet buried its nose under the water constantly and sometimes the seas would slip up the sloping fronts of the turrets and splash their spray against the bridges. The sun was bright, and as these seas would come over the bow and spread their aprons of water over the forward parts of the ships the colors would change from blue to green, with white fringes, and then the sun would arch rainbows over the boiling torrents that would run from the sides as the ships rose to the tops of the waves. The sea was tossing and tumbling far out to the horizon circle, and as the ships dipped and rose they seemed like veritable warhorses of the sea rearing and plunging in royal sport. It was a beautiful spectacle, and it lasted all of one day.

Soon after rounding the far eastern corner of South America there came a little comedy. The Illinois had dropped out of column formation to adjust some trifling disarrangement of machinery and some one on her thought he saw a raft to the eastward with two men clinging to it. Those in charge were evidently new to this coast and did not recall that fishermen of the Amazon region often sail 150 to 200 miles out to sea in the small catamarans that look more like logs or rafts than fishing vessels. A signal was sent to the Culgoa.

The fleet had no information at this time as to why the Culgoa suddenly dropped out of column and headed to the east and then to the north until she was nearly hull-down. Soon it became known that she was bent on a rescue and the correspondents got out their note books and began to prepare to make much of the incident. After two hours the Culgoa was back in her place with what seemed to be a sheepish look to those familiar with the situation. She had found two men on a raft—that is to say, on a catamaran—and they were fishing and seemed content with their station in life and especially honored because a naval vessel of the United States had gone out of her way to greet them. The intention was all right and good form did not permit the bantering of any humorous personalities on the situation.

Three nights out from Rio Admiral Evans ordered the first searchlight practice for the fleet. Let it be understood that there are certain things which a correspondent may not send from this fleet or even reveal afterward. They relate especially to tactical things, the things that may give information or some hint of information of importance to other nations. All navies have searchlights, however, and what will be said here of the drill will be of that nature familiar to every naval man and no more. It was merely a warming up, so to speak, of searchlight work, just a test to see if all the apparatus was in good condition.

The drill was to begin at exactly 8 o'clock. Long before that time every searchlight had been uncovered and connected up and all eyes were waiting for the Connecticut to begin the flashing. Just as eight bells were struck, when not more than half a dozen lights were visible on each ship of the fleet, a great beam of white shot out across the starboard of the Connecticut. Instantly ninety-six beams like it darted into the air and the ocean for something like a square mile became illuminated as though the full glory of the heavens had descended upon it.

You who have seen Coney Island lighted up on a summer's night may form some idea of the scene if you can concentrate in your imagination the lights down there turned into a hundred great shafts, sweeping, dancing, swinging, soaring into space, each light with the sheen of a full moon brought right down within the grasp of a man who turned a cylinder about as he pleased and said to the rays go here and go there. It was like a new world sprung into existence before your very eyes. Something of the meaning of the power of a fleet of warships was revealed to you. It was merely a small part of this power, just a trifle of the strength of warships put on display because it could be tested in no other way.

Each ship had six of these lights. The rules do not permit the rays of one ship to be displayed upon another because it imperils navigation for one thing, and there are also other naval reasons. It required some skill to avoid lighting up your neighbor ship. As soon as the lights were turned on the men managing them began to swing and twist them, now fast, now slowly, about each ship. When the rays struck the water, say, about 300 yards away from a ship and each light was turned slowly around the vessel, it was as if so many sprites of the sea were dancing about like children around a May pole. Then a beam would go scampering away as if it had the concentrated velocity of a hundred 12-inch shots. Then there would come a period of helter-skelter playing of the lights until a slow movement of searching on the waters was in progress. Each ship looked as if it were a thousand legged spider, each leg made up of a ray of light. Sometimes the lights of a ship would be interlaced; again they would be centered on some spot far out in the water.

The rolling crests of the swells would be whitened with the gleam of thousands of diamonds. The reflection of the light beams made bands of purple and deep green upon the water. The stars lost their brightness. It was as if the Yankee ships had reached out and stolen a good share of the strength of the sun—which actually was the case from the standpoint of science—had stored it in their holds and then had sprung it at night, just to show what could be done in the way of robbing the powers of darkness of their evil aspect. For half an hour the thrilling exhibition continued and just as you were preparing to throw up your hat and give three cheers for Uncle Sam and his navy an officer brought you back to you feet with the quiet remark:

"Why, that isn't a patch compared with the real thing! This was just a sort of tuning up process, no more to be compared with the real thing than the tuning of a piano is to be compared with a Paderewski performance."

You thought him a little strong in his analogy until of a sudden all the lights went out and there were sixteen battleships quietly sailing along a sea as smooth as Long Island Sound in the summer time, with only regulation lights showing, distances kept perfectly and nothing to indicate that there had been anything out of the ordinary in a sedate and peaceful passage from one port to another.

An unexpected use of the searchlights followed about thirty hours after this first display. It was 2:30 o'clock of the second morning after when the unforeseen happened. A gun on the Missouri boomed out. It was the signal for a man overboard. At once the life buoys were cast off from the ship, their lights burning brightly, and the Missouri and the entire eight ships of the second squadron, running parallel with the squadron that Admiral Evans was leading, burst into a blaze of light. In two minutes the entire fleet was stopped. Boats were lowered from the Missouri, the Illinois and Kearsarge following. The searchlights were thrown upon the water and upon the boats, showing the men at work rowing about and searching for the lost man. It made a brilliant scene in the dead of night. Carefully and systematically the boats were rowed about for half an hour. Then, when it was evident that if a man had fallen overboard he had been lost, perhaps by striking a propeller or being hit by some other part of the ship, recalls were given and the boats returned to the ships and the squadron proceeded. At that time the Missouri signalled that she was not sure she had lost a man, but a sentry had thought he had seen one fall overboard.

Later the facts came out. The alarm was given by a man who had a sailor's nightmare. No one was found missing at roll call the next morning and every one felt so sheepish that no formal report was made.

A few hours previous, at 10:35 in the evening, one of the perils of navigation—especially for the other fellow was brought home vividly to the fleet. A barkentine with a dim light was sighted about 800 yards to the west of Admiral Evans's squadron. The vessel was going north. Probably the man on watch had gone to sleep. He suddenly awoke and before the officer of the deck on the Louisiana could recover from his amazement he headed straight for that vessel, the fourth ship in the squadron. It was soon plain that the barkentine would clear the stern of the Louisiana and would become a menace to the Georgia, the following ship. The officer of the deck of the Georgia had to sheer off and this made the officer of the deck of the Rhode Island sheer also. The barkentine went right between the Louisiana and the Georgia.

By that time the officer of the sailing vessel had got a lot of lights out and apparently was in a state of complete obfustication. He had never seen so many lights at sea in such a limited space in his life. Clearing the first squadron he came into full view of another over to the east. There he was, all mixed up in a fleet of warships going at the rate of ten knots an hour. He became rattled again and turned to go outside the line of the first squadron, which he had just pierced. He came near hitting the Virginia, but finally got away safely. It was a hair raising episode.

"That's what I call dancing a Virginia reel at sea by boats," said one officer after the incident was closed.

"It seems to me," said another, "to show that not only does a kind Providence usually watch over a drunken man on shore, but seems to guard men at sea who go to sleep on watch."

It was a miraculous escape for the barkentine, threading her way in and out of a fleet of warships proceeding at fair speed and only 400 yards apart. No skipper would have dared take such chances in the daytime and in full control of his craft. The officers of the fleet breathed a sigh of relief to think that they didn't have to record against this cruise the running down of a vessel at sea with the consequent probable loss of life.

And so the voyage went on placidly with the usual drills and daily ceremonies until Cape Frio, some sixty miles east of Rio, was sighted and then there came the journey along the coast, the entrance into the magnificent harbor, the splash of the mud hooks and the feeling that one-third of the voyage to San Francisco was over, and the fleet was shaking itself down into a smooth working condition better and better with every day at sea.

CHAPTER IV
NEPTUNE AHOY!

NEPTUNUS Rex! Long live the King!

Neptune, the only king who never dies, had the biggest job of his career on Monday, January 6, in the year of our Lord 1908 and the year of 4,000 or 5,000 and something since Noah set up a sea calendar and headed for Mount Ararat. More than 14,000 officers and men of the United States Navy, practically one-half of its membership, crossed the equator at longitude 37° 11' W., and of those fully 12,500 had to be initiated into the "solemn mysteries of the Ancient Order of the Deep." Like the man who tried the rheumatism cures, every one of the landlubbers, pollywogs and sea lawyers was "done good."

It was the proudest day that Neptunus Rex ever experienced. He said so himself, and he put on great airs and strutted about with the dignity and pomp that befit his majestic rule as he declared that he was the only king, by all the mermaids, sea serpents, whales, sharks, dolphins, skates, eels, suckers, lobsters, crabs, pollywogs and jellyfish, who could ever take possession of the United States Navy. And by the selfsame creatures of the deep he swore solemnly that none but he and Uncle Sam should ever have the right to boss that navy. Whereat the duly initiated members of his royal domain cheered him lustily and declared everlasting allegiance.

To get right down to business, let it be said at once that it was a spectacle worth travelling tens of thousands of miles to see. It was the most elaborate, painstaking, well planned, rip snorting initiation of the kind ever produced. For be it known that Neptune does not recognize as a thirty-third degree member of his domain any one who has not crossed the line on a warship.

Neptune, not having the attribute of omnipresence, was able to visit only one of the ships of this fleet. That ship was the Louisiana. Of course, every other ship will make the claim that he visited that vessel, but the fact is that he honored the Louisiana alone with his personal presence and had to send representatives to the other ships. He said he came to the Louisiana because he had heard she was the most famous ship of the fleet, President Roosevelt having made a trip close to his royal domain in her. He therefore selected her for his visit and he ordered that a special honorary certificate of membership in his realm be sent to the President and Mrs. Roosevelt.

The preparations for Neptune's visit began formally on December 19, three days out from Hampton Roads, when "Fore Top, the Official Representative of his Majesty Neptunus Rex," received a wireless message to organize the members of the royal domain on the ship and prepare for the initiation ceremonies. Thereafter every day while the ship was at sea mysterious proclamations were posted at the scuttlebutt (the drinking tank) telling the landlubbers, pollywogs and sea lawyers of the terrible things that would happen to them when they crossed the line. Dire penalties were provided for any who might try to hide, and long extracts from the Revised Statutes were posted prescribing the punishments to be inflicted upon the willing and the unwilling. There was decided uneasiness among the youngsters on board—and it should be remembered that most of the crew of the ship are just above or below 21, having come almost green to the vessel from the training station at Newport—when a proclamation was posted containing this notification to Fore Top:

"There has been ordered supplied to you upon arrival at Port of Spain, Trinidad, 750 gallons of coal tar, 90 gallons of varnish, 400 pounds of sulphur, 4 sets of razors complete, 18 brushes, 4 sets of fine rib saws, 4 surgical knives, 2 large meat axes and 15 pairs of handcuffs."

Orders were also given for sharpening the claws and appetites of the royal bears and warnings issued lest any one of the uninitiated should speak disrespectfully of Neptune's subjects. A day or so later came orders prescribing the height of the ducking chairs. These chairs were to be so high that four flipflaps would be turned by the victims before hitting the water in the royal tanks. Six powerful electrical batteries were also ordered for use. The bears were not to have any food for fifty-seven hours preceding the crossing of the line.

Other proclamations provided for towing recalcitrants in the sea from the hawse pipes for from five minutes to four hours, according to the degree of the offence of the victim.

Marvellous yarns were spun at all mess tables of the severity of the initiation, all of which got on the nerves of the youngsters, and the crew was in a state of semi-trepidation as the day of the crossing approached. Then came a glimmer of fun, for one day there came a "scuttlebuttic, telephonic, atmospheric" communication in which after more warnings that there would be no escape this was said:

"I understand that there is a newspaper man on board, and if such is the case you will report to me at once, as there is a special provision in the Regulations of the Ceremonies of Initiation of the Royal Realm for such animals."

Many were the grins among the crew that greeted the Sun man that day, and some of them ventured respectfully to salute him and ask him if he had seen the message and had noticed that orders were also issued "to the royal doctors to have their pills and goggle water mixed in accordance with the regulations and the barbers to use the proper per cent. of coal tar, oil, molasses and india ink for their lather." The next day Neptune ordered his subjects to "do stunts" with the newspaper man. Printers' ink was to be used in his lather so as "to give him a dose of his own medicine." A special oven was to be constructed to roast him, and then he would know how it felt himself.

General Order No. 7 of Fore Top told the barbers to mix mucilage with the printer's ink and to prepare the oven, and the officers and crew were now in broad grins as they greeted the Sun man and informed him that he was going to get his all right. Then came "brainstorms" from his Majesty telling how the policemen were to act, ordering that their "clubs be stuffed with grate bars" and such, and providing how the hair should be clipped. Forthwith it was remarkable how dozens of men rushed to to the ship's real barbers and had their hair clipped close.

"I ain't goin' to have none of that coal tar and grease in mine," said a frightened signal boy. A windsail was made to supply air to the officers' quarters, and the messenger boy of the executive officer came to him and asked him if it was true that the members of the crew were to be shot down that canvas tube.

So the proclamations grew in number and with them increased the power of the yarns. The royal electrician was ordered to test the batteries and the royal boatswain was told to prepare his towlines and co-operate with the royal diver to see that the towing was done properly, and finally came the last message from Neptune on the day before the line was reached. It approved all that had been done. Old Nep. howled with joy because the bears were hungry, the knives and razors were sharpened, the lather had been mixed just right, the electric batteries were sizzling, the drop into the tanks had been put up to thirty-eight feet, and he wound up with this sentiment:

"God help the poor rookies!"

Whereupon Fore Top issued this final order:

The names of about a dozen well known sea lawyers of the ship were posted immediately upon the scuttlebutt and the newspaper man "got his" later.

That afternoon Capt. Wainwright and his executive officer, Mr. Eberle, being sticklers for the preservation of as many of the old time naval and sea traditions in modern warships as possible, took official notice of what was going on and this order was published to the ship:

At a general muster of the crew that Sunday morning each man who had not crossed the line—and a complete list had been prepared of them—received this subpoena as he was dismissed from the deck:

Of the 960 odd persons on the Louisiana only about 100 had ever crossed the line. The proportion was about the same on all the other ships of the fleet, so it is a fair estimate that 12,500 men were waiting the arrival of Neptune. A wireless message was sent to the Louisiana that his Majesty's secretary and orderly would come on board on the evening of January 5 to make the final preparations for the ruler's visit the next morning. The call for hammocks was sounded about 7:30 o'clock that evening and while the men were aft the officer of the deck, Ensign N. W. Post heard a pistol shot across the bows of the ship followed by:

"Ship ahoy!"

"Aye, aye, sir," said the officer of the deck, giving the accepted greeting for an officer.

"What ship is that? Where are you from and whither are you bound?" came the voice.

"The U. S. S. Louisiana, from Hampton Roads, bound through the domains of his Majesty Neptune Rex for the Pacific Ocean," shouted Post through a megaphone.

"Heave to; I want to come aboard!"

"Aye, aye, sir. Come aboard."

Thereupon the ship was hove to theoretically and two men in fantastic dress popped over the starboard bow and made their way aft. Mr. Eberle, the executive officer, had been notified that Neptune's secretary, Main Top Bowline, was on board, and went forward to receive him.

Capt. Wainwright was notified and appeared on the quarter deck. Soon, with the bugles sounding attention, Main Top Bowline and his orderly emerged through the superstructure with Mr. Eberle. The secretary and assistant were in full dress, their swallowtails of bright red chintz accentuated by enormous negro minstrel collars and by ties of pink that flowed out to their shoulders. They carried full dress cocked hats of navy regulation pattern. Their faces were Indian red with various splashes of paint that suggested mermaids and sea serpents. Main Top Bowline had a pair of binoculars made from black beer bottles which were capped by the rubber pieces that fit the eyes on the sighting apparatus of the guns.

Mr. Eberle presented the secretary to the captain, while the officers and dozens of the crew gathered around. The secretary said that Neptune would come aboard at 9 A. M. the next day and would be prepared to take possession of the ship and exercise due authority. He complimented the captain on the appearance of his "fine ship," said that Neptune would visit the Louisiana only because it had once carried his "distinguished colleague, the President," and he expressed the hope that the captain and the crew would extend the proper honors. Capt. Wainwright straightened himself to his full height and said:

"Mr. Secretary, Main Top Bowline: It gives me great pleasure to welcome you to this ship and to receive the notification of the contemplated visit to-morrow of his Majesty Neptunus Rex. I beg of you to convey to him the expression of my highest esteem and to say to him that we shall pay him the distinguished honors that belong to his rank, and shall obey gladly all his august commands. If you will now proceed with me to my cabin we will discuss there the details of the ceremony."

Then the captain and the visitors disappeared down the captain's gangway and a bottle of champagne was opened and the health of Neptune toasted. The captain told Main Top Bowline that he had been a member of Neptune's domain for thirty-eight years but had not met Main Top Bowline before. Main Top said he had been in his Majesty's service only fifteen years. Full particulars of Mr. Roosevelt's trip on the Louisiana were requested to be reported to Neptune and then the secretary left and called on the wardroom. He served subpœnas himself on the officers and asked especially for the newspaper man. He said that Neptune had been misrepresented so often in print and that it was so seldom that he ever found a reporter on a real ship of the line that he was bound to tell the newspaper man to be prepared for the worst. Then the visitors were escorted forward and they disappeared, after ordering this message sent to Admiral Evans: