"That is what half of all who come here want," answered Caleb Walton. "I reckon they think Commodore Schley s Flying Squadron is going to settle the whole war by going after that Spanish fleet said to be at Cadiz, or thereabouts. Well, the lad better come with me. I belong to the Brooklyn now."
"You!" came from both Phil Newell and Walter simultaneously.
"I thought you were stationed here?" continued the wooden-legged man.
"I was, but I've just received orders to join the Brooklyn and bring at least fifteen men with me. It seems they are short-handed and can't get the men at Norfolk. If this lad wants to go with me, now is his chance. What's his handle?"
"My name is Walter Russell, sir. But—but are you going to join the Brooklyn at once?" stammered Walter, never having dreamed that he would be taken away on the spot.
"Uncle Sam doesn't wait long when he picks his man," replied the old gunner, for such Caleb Walton was. "Orders were to leave Boston to-night, but I fancy we'll be kept until to-morrow
