query of Walter's Caleb Walton burst into a roar of laughter. "It's easy to see you're a landsman," he said. "I didn't say a Scotch vessel; I said a Scotch prize – a ship captured illegally, and one that must be given back to her owners. I don't know where that term came from, but it's what the men in the navy always use."
"I see."
"A legitimate prize is sold, and then the money is divided. If the vessel captured was the equal of that taking her, then all the prize money goes to her captain and crew; but if the captured ship is inferior, then her takers get only half of the money, and Uncle Sam keeps the balance."
"And what part would I get if my ship took a prize?" went on Walter, more interested than ever, for the question of prize money had not appealed to him before.
"You would get a share according to your regular pay – perhaps one dollar out of every five or ten thousand."
"That wouldn't be much – on a small craft."
"You are right, lad, but it would be a tidy amount on a big warship worth two or three millions. The division of the prize money is regulated according to law, so there can't be any quarrelling. The commander of a fleet gets one-twentieth, the commander of a ship one-tenth of that coming to his ship (when there are more ships than one interested in the prize), and so on, and we all get our money even if we are on temporary leave of absence."
"But what does Uncle Sam do with his share?" put in Si.
"His share is put into a fund that is used toward paying naval officers, seamen, and marines the pensions due them. These pensions are, of course, not as large as those of the army, but they are considerable."
"Well, I hope we strike a big prize, or half a dozen little ones," said Walter. "On a pay of eleven dollars a month a fellow can't expect to get very rich."
"Do your duty, lad, and you may rise before the war is over." The old gunner caught Walter by the arm. "Come with me," and Caleb Walton arose, and led the way to the smoking-car. Wondering what was meant by this movement, Walter followed.
"I want to have a quiet talk with you," went on Caleb Walton, after they were seated in a secluded corner. "Do you smoke?"
"No, sir."
"You're just as well off. But I must have my pipe." Caleb Walton drew forth a brier-root, filled it with a dark mixture of tobacco, and lit it. "Ah, that's just right. And now to business." And he threw one leg over the other. For a moment he gazed thoughtfully at Walter, and the boy wondered what was coming next. He was satisfied that it must be of more than ordinary importance, otherwise the old gunner would not have asked him to come to the smoking-car, away from their companions.
CHAPTER VI
A GLIMPSE OF THE PRESIDENT
"You see it's this way," began Caleb Walton, after gazing for a moment at Walter. "Phil Newell is your friend, isn't he?"
"Yes, indeed!" responded the boy, warmly.
"Exactly – likewise he is my friend, too. We served together for years, and I sometimes looked up to Phil as a kind of elder brother. Well, after you left us at the navy-yard he and I had a long talk about you, and he made me promise to keep my eye on you – do you understand?"
"I think I do."
"Now, keeping an eye on you is out of the question unless you are placed where I can see you."
"But aren't we both to go aboard of the Brooklyn?" cried Walter.
"Yes, according to the course we're steering now. But both being on the Brooklyn doesn't cover the bill. I expect to be in charge of one of the guns – will be if Bill Darworthy is still in the hospital. Now if you enter as a mere boy, or even as a landsman, it may be that you'll never get around to where I am. You must remember that the Brooklyn is a big ship, and all the men on her are divided into classes, – officers, petty officers, seamen, gunners, marines, and so on, – and one class is pretty well separated from another."
"I presume that is so, but I never thought of it before."
"Even seamen are divided into seamen gunners, apprentices and the like, and if you went on as a mere boy you might not see me once a week, unless we happened to be off duty at the same time."
"I see what you are driving at, Mr. Walton; you – "
"Avast there, Walter, no mister for me, please. I'm plain Caleb Walton."
"Well then, Walton, you want to get me attached to that gun you hope to have placed in your charge?"
"Now you've struck the bull's-eye, lad. The thing of it is, can I manage it?"
"I'm sure you must know more about that than I do. I'll like it first-rate if you could, for I – well, to be plain, I like you."
Caleb Walton held out his horny hand. "The liking is mutual, Walter, and there's my fist on it. Now I have an idee." The old gunner took several puffs at his pipe. "I know Captain Cook of the Brooklyn tolerably well – served under him for a short spell, and once did a little private business for him. Now, Captain Cook won't do a thing as is out of his line of duty, but still – "
"He may aid you in having me assigned to the gun you expect to have charge of?" finished Walter.
"That's it. I think I can work the deal – almost sure of it, – but you must help me."
"What must I do?"
"Say nothing and leave it all to me, and if my plan goes through, don't tell any one that you were favored. If you do, you'll only make enemies."
"I'll remember that. But what of Haskett, Doring, and the others?"
"I'd like to have Doring in my gang – he's the right sort. I don't want that scowling Jim Haskett, not after what Doring has told me of him. But he's out of it, anyway, for he enlisted as a first-class seaman, at twenty-six dollars per month."
"I wish I knew a little more about a warship," said the youth, longingly. "The more I hear, the less I seem to know."
"It will all come to you in time, and when you are on board I'll show you all I can. It would do no good to talk about guns and the like until I can point out the different parts to you, for you wouldn't know a breech-block from a priming-wire until you laid eyes on it."
"But how is a ship commanded? Won't you tell me something about that?"
"Of course you mean a warship, not a merchantman. Well, the highest officer is, of course, the captain, although the vessel may be the flagship of a commodore or an admiral."
"And what of a commodore and an admiral? You see I'm awfully green, when it comes down to the navy. My younger brother Larry is the real sailor in our family."
"You'll get there, lad; anybody will who is in for learning as you are. An admiral is the highest officer in any navy, and he commands everything that floats, from battleship to despatch tug. Next to him is the vice-admiral. In the United States navy these offices don't exist any more, having died out with the deaths of Admiral Porter and Vice-Admiral Rowan."
"But the newspapers speak of Admiral Sampson."
"He is acting rear-admiral, but holds only the office of commodore. He commands a fleet of warships, while a commodore commands only a squadron; that
