The Project Gutenberg eBook of The North Pacific, by Willis Boyd Allen.

When Fred Larkin regained consciousness, after being hurled into the sea, he found himself lying on a large table covered with a white cloth. Around him stood a number of big, burly men with black beards and stern but not unkindly faces. He knew at once that they must be Russians, and (having applied himself vigorously to the study of their language on his outward voyage from San Francisco) addressed himself to the most amiable-looking of the lot.

"Oui!" replied Larkin, glad to know that he could converse in a tongue much more familiar to him than the former. He repeated his question, adding, as a twinge of pain shot through his shoulder, "I am hurt."

"Yes," said the other; "you were struck by a splinter. We picked you up from the water and brought you here. You are English?"

"You are near Port Arthur, at Laouwei. What were you doing in the Chinese junk which was sunk by the Japanese?" demanded the Russian more sternly.

"I am a newspaper correspondent," said Fred boldly, though in a weak voice. His wound pained him more and more, and he rightly guessed that the collar-bone was fractured. "I have been in Tokio, and could not reach the front, so I crossed over to your side, where, they tell me, the press receives more consideration. My credentials are in my inside pocket."

The officer—for such Fred deemed him to be—smiled grimly, but made no comment upon this speech.

"You must be taken to the hospital in the city, where they will set your broken bone," he said. "Meanwhile you will pardon the discourtesy of covering your face."

A word of command was given, and a light cloth laid over the reporter's head. He was then placed gently upon a stretcher and carried on board some kind of a vessel. Before long Fred heard the clamour of a wharf crowd; then felt himself lifted again and borne through the streets of a city which he knew must be Port Arthur, up a rather steep hill, to a building where he was deposited on a cot beside two other men. The cloth was now removed, and the first object which met his eye was the kind, good face of a young woman, on whose arm was bound a strip bearing a red cross. With a feeling that he was in a safe refuge he meekly took the medicine held to his lips and fell into a deep sleep.

Between his sleeping and waking, the collar-bone was set that afternoon. Fred only remembered a confused sense of gentle hands and rough voices, of the smell of chloroform, of a general battered and "want-to-cry" feeling; and, at last, of utter abandonment of restfulness. The next morning he was weak and a little feverish, but he felt like a new man. In three weeks, the surgeon told him, he would be about again. Fred made use of his first returning strength to cable to the Bulletin and ask for instructions. The censor passed the message without cutting. The reply was terse: "Remain Russian army."

The time passed pretty heavily with the disabled correspondent, during his convalescence at the hospital. From the window of his room he could look down on the harbour and see the Russian war-ships. His two room-mates, Japanese officers from one of the stone-laden hulks sunk in a vain attempt to block the channel in Hobson fashion, had been sent to prison soon after his arrival.

From time to time he obtained scraps of information from other patients, from the hospital surgeon-staff, and from his gentle little nurse, Marie Kopofsky, a native of Moscow. Not "at the Czar's command," but of her own free will, she had volunteered, as had hundreds of Japanese women on their side of the sea, to nurse the sick and wounded at the front, under the banner of the Red Cross.

On the day before he left the hospital Fred was walking idly through the corridors to his room, when his ear caught the sound of an unpleasantly familiar voice. It recalled the prison at Santiago, where he had been confined at the close of his daring scouting expedition during the Spanish War. It recalled, too, strangely enough, the bright days he had recently passed at Tokio. Suddenly a light broke upon his mind.

"Stevens!" he exclaimed under his breath. "That mean traitor who tried to bribe me to betray the secrets of the United States navy to the Spanish—he and Señor Bellardo are the same man! It was the beard and the dark complexion that fooled me! What tricks is he up to now, I wonder?"[3]

Fred turned away abruptly, before Stevens caught sight of him, and entering his private room closed the door.

"I may not be here long," he muttered, "but while I am I will keep an eye on that fellow."

The next day he received his discharge from the hospital, and obtained lodgings at a respectable hotel near by. As soon as possible he presented his credentials to General Stoessel, and received a newspaper pass, with the instructions of the Russian government governing war correspondents at the front. They were, in brief, as follows:

Rule I. Correspondents must not interfere in any way with the preparations for war, or the plans of the staff, or divulge military secrets of advantage to the enemy, such as actions in which forts are damaged or guns lost.

II. No criticism of members of the General Staff, Corps, or Division Staff. The report of an engagement must be limited to a simple statement of fact.

III. Correspondents must not transmit unconfirmed information about the enemy, such as rumours of victory, or threatening movements, which may cause public uneasiness in Russia.

IV. All correspondents without credentials will be turned back. Those given permission to join the forces are in honour bound to observe the regulations, with the penalty of expulsion without warning for any violation. They can go anywhere in the field, and are barred only from the Russian fleet.

"H'm," said Fred, as he read over the printed rules, "fair enough, though 'a simple statement of fact' is hard lines on a flowery writer. If my friends the Japs had been as liberal, I shouldn't have got into Port Arthur in a hurry."

He soon made the acquaintance of two or three other newspaper men from European capitals, and managed to get a few good cables through the censor without their being mangled beyond recognition. He soon discovered Stevens's lodgings, where he learned that the traitor had the entrée of Staff headquarters, and was known as Henry Burley, of Liverpool. For the present Fred could see no spoke to put in his wheel, for the interests of the United States were, as far as he knew, in no way involved in the man's character or actions. Still, as Fred soliloquised, "he would bear watching."

The war proceeded with unabated vigour. During the second week of Fred's enforced idleness another sea-tragedy took place in the Yellow Sea, off Korea. The Japanese transport Kinshiu Maru was proceeding from Nagasaki to the Korean coast, with ammunition, coal, supplies, and infantry. In the middle of the night several large ships loomed up through the haze. Supposing them to be Togo's fleet, the Kinshiu Maru signalled, "I am bringing you coal." What was her commander's dismay to read the answer, twinkling out in red and white Ardois lights, "Stop instantly!" At the same moment the cry ran through the transport, "The Russians! the Russians!"

"Surrender!" signalled Admiral Yeszen, from his flagship. It was the Vladivostock squadron of formidable cruisers, released at last from the ice which for months had both protected and fettered them.

Instead of surrendering, the crew of the Kinshiu Maru began to lower their boats in mad haste, hoping to escape in the darkness; a Russian steam cutter captured every boat but one, which was afterward picked up by a Japanese schooner, many miles from the scene of the disaster.

The Russians boarded the transport, and found about one hundred and fifty soldiers, who barricaded themselves in the cabin and refused to surrender. Withdrawing to their ships, the victors began to shell the doomed hulk. The Japanese soldiers swarmed on deck and discharged their rifles in the direction of the foe, shouting old Samurai battle-songs. Pierced and shattered, the transport settled lower and lower in the water. At last a Whitehead torpedo, exploding against the ship, tore a great hole in her hull amidships, and she plunged into the depths of the sea. Up to the last moment, when the waves rolled over them, the soldiers shouted their defiance and steadily loaded and fired. With two hundred prisoners, the Russian squadron returned to Vladivostock.

On land the Japanese advanced steadily. Gradually the long, throttling fingers extended from east and west toward the railroad that meant life or death to the great fortress. Then came the battle of the Yalu, to the east. The river was crossed, the Japanese poured into Manchuria, and the position of the Russian forces on the Liaotung peninsula became still more critical. Supplies were crowded into the beleaguered port, and non-combatants filled the northward-bound trains to overflowing. Early in May it became evident that with one more clutch of the relentless hand of Nippon all communication between Port Arthur and the rest of the world would be cut off.

Fred Larkin saw that he must decide whether to move out at once or remain virtually a prisoner in the town. Most of the other correspondents had already gone. The instructions from the home office were ambiguous. He tried to cable again, but the wires were pre-empted for military despatches in those stirring days. He decided, reluctantly, to abandon Port Arthur and join the Russian army now entrenched a few miles north, on the line of the railroad.

On the evening before the day which he had set for his departure he was strolling about the large square where a military band was playing national airs, when he bumped against a stranger who was hurrying in the opposite direction. Both paused, and their eyes met.

"Hush!" said the latter, looking nervously over his shoulder. "My name is Burley. Why are you here? When did you leave Tokio?"

"At about the same time when you decamped with the War Office documents," said Fred easily. "Look here, old fellow," he continued with assumed cordiality, "there's no need for us to quarrel in a foreign camp. You've got something on hand now, or I'm mistaken. Can't you let me in?"

"You used pretty hard words to me the last time we met," said the other gloomily. "It wasn't your fault that I wasn't strung up."

"Nor yours that I wasn't," assented Fred cheerfully, "so we're square on that score. But this is a different matter. It's all Japanese or Russian over here, and your Uncle Samuel hasn't a finger in the pie. Now you must have made a good thing out of your Tokio observations, and the presumption is that, having the confidence of our friend Stoessel and his staff, you are about ready to face about."

"Perhaps I am," said Stevens, or Burley, again looking about him. "And if I am, I need one good man I can depend on, to help me in the job. It's too big for one to handle, and the city is so full of spies that I wouldn't trust a native round the corner. But how do I know you will do your part, eh?"

"All right, I'll try you." They were now walking through one of the side streets, which was but dimly lighted. "Here are my lodgings. Come in and we'll talk it over."

He opened the outer door with a pass-key, and Fred followed him up two flights of narrow stairs.

Larkin entered, but he was hardly over the threshold when he was pushed headlong to the floor, and heard the door closed and locked behind him.

A low laugh sounded from the entry. "'Help me out,' will you, you puppy?" whispered Burley through the keyhole. "You'll never help anybody out, in this world. Within ten minutes this house will be a heap of rubbish, and you will be in kingdom come. Good-bye! I'll report you at home!"

FOOTNOTE:

[3] Readers of Cleared for Action will remember the previous career of the renegade Stevens. He was a graduate of the Naval Academy at Annapolis, and subsequently turned against his country. In an attempt to betray the Spaniards he was detected, arrested, and thrown into prison at Santiago just before the fall of that city.

CHAPTER XVI. THE LAST TRAIN FROM PORT ARTHUR.

Fred Larkin's first move, on finding himself trapped, was a perfectly natural one. He scrambled to his feet and rushed to the door. It took him some time to find the knob, in the darkness, and on turning it and pulling with all his might he was not surprised to discover that it refused to yield.

"It's a bad scrape," said the reporter to himself, breathing hard with his exertions, "but I've been in worse ones, unless that threat of blowing up the house is carried out."

He had been fumbling in his pocket, and now drew from it a box of wax vestas, one of which he struck. The light disclosed a small room, perfectly bare. A glance at the heavy door convinced him that it was useless to attempt a speedy escape in that direction. There were two low windows, both with the sashes fastened down and protected by outside shutters of wood.

Fred made short work of one of the sashes, smashing it to bits with his foot. He then unhasped the shutters and peered out. The night was cloudy and he could discover nothing beyond the fact that there was a sheer drop of at least twenty-five feet to a sort of yard, which might be paved with brick or lumbered up with stones and iron scrap, for all he could see. The buildings beyond seemed to be warehouses of some sort; not a light gleamed from a single window. He shouted with all his might for help, but none came. Although he did not believe the house would "be a heap of rubbish in ten minutes"—three of which had already elapsed—he was sufficiently in doubt to be perfectly willing to leave it at once, if there were any possible way of escape.

As he stepped back into the room the flooring creaked under his foot. Lighting another wax match he found that a board was loose. He managed to get his fingers under the end, and, throwing his whole weight upward, ripped out the board. With the first for a lever, its neighbour came up easily enough. It was a cheaply built house, without a second layer beneath the surface floor. The edgewise-set planks on which the boards rested were about two feet apart. Fred did not hesitate a moment, but stamped hard upon the upper side of the ceiling of the apartment beneath his own. His foot went through the lath and plaster with a smash and a cloud of dust. Picking up the broken boards, he enlarged the hole, and, as soon as the dust cleared away, peered through the opening. The room below was as dark as his own. He "sounded" with the longest floor-board at his disposal, and was gratified to find that he could "touch bottom" at about nine feet depth. Without losing further time he crawled through the hole, hung off from the stringers and dropped.

Recovering himself from the shock of alighting in the dark, Fred hastily produced another vesta, in order to survey his new quarters. The room was entirely unfurnished, like the one above. In one respect, however, it differed from the apartment in which he had been so unceremoniously installed: the door was ajar! In a minute more Larkin stood on the pavement outside, and in another, having taken a careful survey of the premises, he was hurrying away to his own lodgings, which he reached in safety, congratulating himself on the happy issue of his evening's adventure.

Martin Stevens, like all evil-doers, was an unhappy man. For weeks and months he would toil at a self-imposed task, to earn money and fame at the expense of principles, and when he seemed to himself to have attained absolute success, and felt the crackle of his basely earned bank-notes in his pocket,—he was miserable. The luscious fruit he had so long looked forward to eating was a Dead Sea apple, crumbling to ashes at the first bite.

After his narrow escape from death at the hands of the Spaniards in Santiago, he had engaged in various questionable enterprises on the Continent, where a natural aptitude for languages soon enabled him to converse fluently in German, French, Italian, and Russian. He was already master of Spanish, as we have seen, and he had received a fine education in applied mathematics, physics, and navigation at the United States Naval Academy. Tall and rather well formed, carrying himself well, and conversing easily in the language of the country where he desired to exercise his peculiar calling—that of a professional spy—he readily obtained admittance to many councils and offices closed to the general public. He had correspondents in every court in Europe, as well as in Japan and at Pekin.

When Stevens left Tokio in disguise, with half a dozen important papers in his breast pocket, he felt that he had achieved the crowning glory of his life. The documents were indeed gladly received at the Russian headquarters, but the man was despised and distrusted. The bluff, gallant Stoessel paid the spy a large sum without hesitation; but, beyond suggesting another expedition—perhaps to the camp of General Nogi's forces, or to Admiral Togo's fleet—he had nothing more to say to him. As the high-minded Russian turned to his staff-officers, whose bronzed, manly faces bore witness to their honourable service under the Czar, Stevens sneaked off, his face sallower than ever, to cash the official draft and to gnash his teeth at the cold, contemptuous treatment he had met with when his secrets were all divulged. In this mood, plotting a new system of espionage upon the Russians, whom he hated, he had met Larkin. He had already recognised the reporter in Tokio, and had thought himself well rid of him when he fled to Port Arthur. No sight could have been more unwelcome to him than that of Larkin's merry, honest, shrewd countenance, rising before him like Banquo's ghost, when least expected.

Near Stevens's lodgings was an empty house of which he had the key, and in which he had already met representatives of that terrible class of men who are now found in all parts of the civilised world, but most where the double eagle of the Russian flag proclaims the despotic rule of St. Petersburg—the Nihilists. Revolving in his mind various plans for getting rid of Larkin without actually committing murder, he determined, on the spur of the moment, to lock him up over night at this secret place of rendezvous. He even thought vaguely of blowing up the building with a bomb, which one of his friends would supply on demand. He shrank, however, from this extreme measure, which would put his own head in peril, and contented himself with giving the war correspondent a good scare, out of pure malice, and with so disposing of his person that he would be kept out of the way over night. He had no doubt that Larkin would gain his release in some way the next morning, but there would be time, meanwhile, to don a new disguise and perfect arrangements for leaving the city. How he failed, we have seen. Fred Larkin was not an easy man to scare, or to keep within four walls against his will. The next morning, accordingly, both spy and reporter were at the railway station, eager to take the first train for the north. There was a dense crowd of refugees struggling for places, and neither of the two men was conscious of the other's presence on board when the guard's whistle sounded at last, and the long train—the last train for many a weary month, as it proved—moved out of Port Arthur.

It was six o'clock on the morning of May 6th. The sun had burst through the clouds which had rendered the preceding night so gloomy, and the country around the city stretched out on either side of the railroad in all the loveliness of spring. Fields and hillsides flushed with blossoms of almond and apricot, and opened fair reaches of greensward as the train rolled past. In sheltered nooks, by the banks of dancing streamlets, nestled those little Chinese villages which, however squalid upon close acquaintance, add a picturesque touch to the Oriental landscape. All around the horizon was piled with high hills, clothed in verdure or reddish in the early sunlight where broad ledges and stretches of sandy slope had been denuded by storm and the hand of man. Larkin almost forgot the war and the hot passions that were smouldering behind the fair peaks and along the hidden valleys of Manchuria, as he gazed from the car window and thought of the Brookfield meadows in May, the little stream where he had caught his first trout, and the pine wood which sheltered the brave mayflowers and hepaticas before the winter's drifts had melted on the northern slopes and in the deeper recesses of the forest.

But his musings were rudely interrupted. At the end of about two hours after leaving Port Arthur the train halted at the outpost position occupied by the Russian forces under General Fock. The peace of nature was broken by the sound of sappers and diggers at work, by commands harshly shouted, the tramping of horses, the rumble of wheels, the stir and bustle of an armed camp.

On again, steadily forging northward, with the engine throwing out great clouds of black smoke from her soft-coal fuel as she climbed the up-grades; through several villages without a stop, until Kinchow was reached. A sharp lookout was now kept for Japanese cavalry, which were known to be scouring the country to the east, the main body of the invaders having already made a substantial advance from Dalny, on the eastern coast. A train had been fired upon, only the day before, at a point about forty miles north of Port Arthur. There were rumours that Japanese troops were landing in force at Port Adams, on the west coast of the peninsula, near Newchwang, and that a strong detachment had occupied Haicheng, just south of Liaoyang.

The engineer pulled open the throttle, as the train struck a long, straight piece of road. The cars rocked from side to side, and cries of alarm from invalids and women were heard. The speed was frightful. Larkin clung to his seat, devoutly hoping that his journalistic career would not terminate in a smash-up on the Imperial Trans-Siberian Railroad. Just then a band of horsemen was seen galloping toward the road. They drew up sharply and could be seen to unsling their muskets. Puff! Puff! No noise could be heard above the roar of the train, but the passengers were not left in doubt as to the cavalrymen's intentions. A dozen windows were shattered by bullets, while the frightened inmates of the rocking cars crouched low between the seats. With a rush and a roar the train clattered on, leaving the assailants far behind.

On and on, through Newchwang, crossing bridges which were soon to be wrapped in flames, rattling over level plains, winding through narrow defiles surmounted with frowning fortifications, until at last the train rolled into the station at Liaoyang. That afternoon the railroad was crossed by the Japanese, the rails torn up, bridges burned and telegraph wires cut. Port Arthur was isolated from the world. Its next telegram would be sent out eight months later, to be recorded in the quaint characters of the Island Empire.

Fred Larkin, little dreaming that his captor of the preceding evening was in the same city, at once proceeded to make himself at home. He presented his credentials at headquarters, secured lodgings, and sent off a dispatch to the Bulletin that very night, describing the last train from Port Arthur and the conditions as he had found them in that city. This final portion of his telegram would have occupied about half a column of his paper. The grim censor blue-pencilled it down to eight lines and a half!

CHAPTER XVII. DICK SCUPP'S ADVENTURE.

"Osprey, ordered to Chemulpo." Hallie Rexdale read the brief announcement in the list of "navy orders, Asiatic fleet," and wondered if her Dave were summoned to new dangers. While his ship was stationed at Chefoo she felt comparatively easy about him; but Chemulpo, the port of Seoul, Korea, was almost on the firing line. To be sure, the United States was as yet in no way involved in the conflict, but suppose the Vladivostock fleet should happen to descend upon Chemulpo? Shells would fly, and the Osprey could not. The obscure half-line in the newspaper recording naval movements, and overlooked by all but one in a thousand readers, carries joy or dismay to many a wife and sweetheart, for whom the interest in the whole paper centres in that one announcement. Hallie tore up the envelope she had already addressed, and added a few lines to her letter, tearfully bidding—bless her heart!—her gallant commander to "be careful."

The officers and crew of the gunboat were glad to receive the order, when it reached them late in May. They were heartily tired of Chefoo, and any change was hailed with delight. They foresaw, moreover, that before long the Osprey would be ordered to Cavite, there to dock for repairs and the cleaning up her weedy hull needed.

From Chefoo to Chemulpo the distance is about four hundred miles. Rexdale consulted his charts and reckoned that thirty-six hours would be needed for the trip. Word was passed that all liberty on shore was at an end, and every man was supposed to be on board before four bells that same evening. "Supposed to be"—but the commander knew that his crew had recently been diminished, and he felt sore on that particular subject. Three men, during the preceding fortnight, had deserted, presumably to join the Russian navy, which was offering generous inducements to new recruits. It is reckoned, at the present day, that nearly ten per cent. of men—not all "enlisted"—in the United States Navy sooner or later desert.

At Morning Quarters, on the day when the Osprey was to weigh anchor and sail for Chemulpo, one more man was missing—no other than our old friend Dick Scupp. He had been one of the shore party of the preceding day, and in some way his absence from mess had been overlooked at night. One of his mates remembered seeing him enter a saloon in Chefoo, kept by a Chinaman of more than doubtful reputation; nothing further could be ascertained concerning the seaman's movements. Dave knew that sailors are loath to betray one of their number, and questioned them sharply, as Dick was too valuable a man to lose without an effort for his recovery. He even delayed sailing while "Jimmy Legs" spent a couple of hours searching for the delinquent in the lower quarters of the town; but no light was thrown on his disappearance. The Chinese saloon-keeper, Ah Fong, declared that a sailor-man answering to Scupp's description had become partly intoxicated on the premises and had been summarily ejected. That was the last seen of him. Lieut.-Commander Rexdale could wait no longer and put to sea, logging the incident as "Dick Scupp, Ordinary Seaman, disappeared in Chefoo. Probably deserted."

At a little before noon the Osprey was under way. There was no local pilot on the bridge, for each of the officers was supposed to be perfectly capable of taking the ship out and conning her across the gulf to the port of destination. During the long stay at Chefoo Rexdale, in particular, had improved the time by as careful a study of the currents, channels, tides, and beacons on the Chinese coast as if he were to pass an examination in seamanship at short notice.

The gunboat was about five miles out when the attention of Staples, the executive, was called to a large junk crossing her bow about a mile ahead.

"There's some sort of a row on board," said the lieutenant, as he eyed the lumbering craft through his glasses. "It looks like a free fight among the pigtails."

Rexdale and Liddon, the officer of the deck, joined him in scrutinising the stranger, whose decks seemed to be crowded with men, among whom a struggle was evidently taking place.

Suddenly the commander exclaimed: "There goes a man overboard, and the scoundrels don't mean to stop for him!"

"He may be dead," suggested Staples coolly. "He seemed to be muffled in black, which isn't the fashionable costume for a Chinese coolie."

"We must pick him up," said Dave with energy. "He's alive and struggling. I can see his head now—I believe it's a negro. Port your helm a little, Mr. Staples. Head for the man and get your lifeboat ready!"

"Port, Quartermaster!" commanded the executive. Then, raising his trumpet to his lips, he shouted, "Man the lifeboat!"

It should be understood that the Osprey, like most gunboats of her class, carried two large "whaleboats." These were kept ready for lowering quickly, when the ship was at sea. The one which happened to be on the lee side at any given time was the "lifeboat." There is always a "lifeboat's crew" on watch, while at sea, permanently detailed, all fully drilled in their duties.

Staples's voice rang like a bugle-call throughout the ship and in an instant every man in the lifeboat crew was on his feet and racing for his station.

"Steady, Quartermaster," commanded Rexdale. "Keep her as she is. You're heading straight for him."

"I'll relieve you, Mr. Liddon," said Staples. "You go down and look out for the boat!"

By this time the boat-crew were clambering into the lee whaleboat, led by Midshipman Starr, who had cleared the wardroom ladder in a flying leap at the first order from the bridge. Within sixty seconds from the call "Man the lifeboat!" the boat was ready for lowering. In the stern-sheets stood the coxswain, steering oar in hand, with every nerve alert and tense; the bow oarsman had cast off the end of the "sea painter," but kept a turn with it around the forward thwart. The other men were seated on the thwarts, two of them with boat-hooks, with which they were prepared to push the boat off from the ship's side while being lowered, as the Osprey was rolling a little in a cross swell. Bob Starr was beside the coxswain, and awaited the command for lowering, as he tried to catch a glimpse of the drowning man in the sea far ahead.

When the alarm was first given the Osprey was making about ten knots an hour, which would call for six minutes to cover the intervening mile. Rexdale knew better than to slow up and lower his boat at once, thus increasing this time and the risk of losing the man.

"Port a little more, Quartermaster!" ordered the captain. "Mr. Staples," he added, "whistle down to the engine-room and tell them to give us all the speed they can."

After a brief colloquy through the tube the executive reported: "They can do a little better, sir, but not much. They were just starting to clean fires."

"Very well, Mr. Liddon," returned Staples. "Hold on all till I give you the order to lower."

Four minutes went by, with only an occasional growl from Dave: "Port a little! steady, now! Starboard a little! Steer a steady course there at the wheel—you're yawing all round the compass! There you are! See if you can hold her steady at that!"

The executive, who was already standing with his hand on the lever of the port indicator, swung it sharply to "Stop," while the quartermaster, at the starboard indicator, did the same.

"Half speed astern with both engines!" commanded the captain. "Stand by to lower, Mr. Staples!"

Again the signal levers swung, and the executive called out, "Stand by to lower, Mr. Liddon, as soon as we stop backing!"

The ship slowed down, trembling under the reversed strokes of the powerful screw and rolling sheets of white foam from beneath each quarter.

"Lower away, sir!" and an instant later the boat sank to the water, was detached, and was pulling rapidly toward the swimmer, who, when first abandoned by the junk, had paddled about irresolutely, but was now making his way steadily toward the boat.

"It's a negro, fast enough," observed Staples, gazing through his binoculars. "He's as black as the ace of spades."

"Give her half-speed, Mr. Staples," directed Rexdale, whose whole mind was now on the management of his ship, "and come round to pick them up!"

Again the signal jingled in the engine-room, and the ship, with helm a-starboard, circled round the lifeboat.

"Up oars! Shove off!" commanded Starr in low tones, as soon as the boat had detached itself from the patent hooks. "Let fall!"

The orders were repeated sharply by the coxswain, the oars dropped into the rowlocks, and were brought level with the rail, with blades horizontal.

"Give way together!" and away went the boat on its errand of mercy, foaming over the choppy sea, toward the struggling swimmer.

"Way enough!" ordered the midshipman, as they approached the black, woolly head bobbing about in the water.

Bob stood up in the stern-sheets, as the boat lost its headway. Suddenly a look of wonder came into his face, succeeded by a suppressed chuckle, to the amazement of the men, no one of whom, however, broke discipline by turning his head.

"In bows!" called the coxswain, in response to Starr's order. "Stand by there, to pull the man in! Hold water! Stern all!"

Again a ripple of amusement shot over the midshipman's jolly face, which grew red in his attempts to suppress his emotions.

The next moment the bow oarsman reached down and with a great effort pulled the dripping castaway in over the side.

"A dog! A big Newfoundland!" exclaimed the coxswain, as the animal, sinking down in the bottom of the boat with a low whine, gave himself a shake that sent the water flying over the men. "Shall we throw him over again, sir?"

"No, no," laughed Bob, resuming his seat. "He's too fine an animal to drown. Get back to the ship. That's enough, men! Silence!"

Rexdale, Staples, and Liddon had already made out the character of the supposed "man overboard," and were shaking with laughter when Bob returned. The duty remained, however, of hoisting the boat and resuming the course to Chemulpo.

The boat pulled up to the leeward side of the ship—the engines having been stopped—and a line was thrown to her. This was deftly caught by the bow oarsman and a turn taken around the forward thwart. The boat, by means of this line and skilful management of the steering oar in the hands of the coxswain, was sheered in under her falls, which had already been overhauled down so that the lower blocks were within easy reach of the men in the boat. The ship in the meantime was forging slowly ahead. A line was thrown from her stern to a man in the stern of the boat, who took a turn and held on, to keep the boat from swinging violently forward when she should leave the water.

The falls were now hooked on, having been previously manned on deck by a long row of men reaching half the length of the ship, ready to run the boat up quickly, at the order.

"Haul taut!" commanded Liddon, who was standing on the ship's rail, watching affairs. "Hoist away!"

Up came the boat, crew and all, to the davits. The men clambered out and, with some difficulty, passed down the dog, who seemed disinclined for further adventures.

"Full speed ahead!" jingled the engine-room bell, at Staples's command, and the Osprey, brought to her old course, once more started for Chemulpo.

The dog, a big, shaggy Newfoundland, soon regained his composure, and wagged his way along the deck with the greatest good-humour.

"He's a fine fellow, anyway," said Dave, patting the broad head. "I'm glad we hove to for him."

"What's this written on his collar," queried Liddon, taking the wet leather band in his hands and turning it, so as to read some rude characters apparently scratched with the point of a knife.

"Starboard, Quartermaster," he ordered in sharp, quick tones. "Mr. Staples, head her dead for that junk!"

Liddon was already by his side. After the first instant he did not wonder at the commander's sudden change of course. He, too, had read the two words, scrawled on the dripping leather collar.

Both officers understood in a moment the whole story of the seaman's mysterious disappearance. They reasoned with the quickness of sailors—and correctly, as it afterwards appeared—that Scupp had yielded to his one unfortunate weakness, a fondness for liquor, during his liberty on shore. Once inside the rum shop he had been plied with spirits, probably drugged—for the Chinese are experts in the use of opium—and while insensible carried on board the junk, to be shipped on board a Russian man-of-war. So many men had deserted for that purpose that there was little likelihood of the man's objecting when he found himself actually pressed (or "shanghaied," to use an old sailor's term for this sort of forcible enlistment), and offered wages double those he had been earning. While the Russian navy would not instigate such a daring breach of the law of nations it was highly improbable that they would reject a good seaman, trained to his work by the United States.

In kidnapping Master Richard Scupp, however, the Chinese made a bad mistake. Now that he was sober Dick had no idea of deserting his colours or taking service under a foreign flag. He came to his senses just as the junk cleared the chops of the harbour of Chefoo, and within five minutes he had laid out three of his captors and was himself knocked down. He found himself lying beside a big dog, who licked his face and expressed his willingness to aid his new friend, so far as he was able, to escape. Without definite purpose Dick scratched the two words on the dog's collar with the point of his sheath knife. This act was detected by the observant Chinese, but they could see no harm in his amusing himself in that way and were rather glad for the dog to keep him out of mischief.

About half an hour later there was a commotion and a jabbering of tongues among the pig-tailed crew. Dick stood up and caught sight of the Osprey heading toward the junk at full speed. This drove him wild again. Bowling over the nearest Chinaman he sprang for a spare spar, intending to jump overboard and take his chances of being picked up. The crew crowded him back, and the dog, putting his forepaws on the rail, barked joyously at the gunboat which poor Dick vainly longed to reach.

A thought struck the kidnapped sailor as he watched the dog. Before any one could stop him he leaped to the side of the junk and tossed the animal overboard. He knew the Newfoundland could swim like a fish, and, providing a shark did not drag him under, there was just a chance that the officers of the Osprey might see the dog and, picking him up, read the message on his collar. The plan, as we have seen, succeeded admirably.

Dick had the satisfaction of watching the gunboat as it slowed down and sent a boat to his four-footed messenger struggling in the sea. The Chinese, as he had expected, were angry at the loss of the dog, but did not dare risking a visit from the United States war-ship by throwing their boat up into the wind and rescuing the black swimmer.

"They'll know where I am, anyhow, if they only read that collar," said poor Dick to himself, as the junk rapidly drew away.

He was now forced down on the deck behind the rail lest he should be made out through the glasses of his officers, which the Chinese knew must be scrutinising the craft which had left behind such a peculiar bit of jetsam.

The Osprey quivered from stem to stern, under the pressure upon her engines. The firemen guessed that something unusual was in the wind, and, stripped to the waist, kept the furnace doors clanging and the fires roaring under her boilers.

"We're walking right up on her!" said Staples excitedly, as he and Dave watched the chase. "Is it any use to signal to them to stop? Do they understand the signals?"

"We'll signal in a way they will understand," exclaimed Rexdale, "if they don't obey the flags. Call the signal-men!"

In response to a shrill whistle two men came clambering up to the bridge and stood ready to execute orders.

A string of gay little flags mounted to the signal yard. They produced not the slightest effect on the flying junk, which was plunging its nose into the waves and scurrying eastward before the wind at not less than nine or ten knots an hour.

"Pass the word for the crew of the forward port three-pounder, Mr. Staples! Stations! Cast loose and provide!"

The orders were repeated, and four gunners sprang to their places. In a twinkling the captain of the crew had removed the gun-cover and tompion and cast adrift the gun-lashings; Number Two had gone over all the mechanism of the mount and provided revolvers and ammunition for all four; Numbers Three and Four brought cartridges and swabs, and took positions in rear of the breech of the gun.

The breech was opened, a cartridge inserted, and the block swung back into place and clamped. The junk was now only about one thousand yards distant. The Osprey, closing up from the south, held a course at an acute angle with that of the fugitive, to head her off.

The best marksman of the gun-crew now stood at the breech, and, with his shoulder against the padded crutch, slowly and carefully brought the Chinaman within the sighting line.

The gun roared, and a big splash just in front of the junk testified to the correct aim of the pointer, and at the same time spoke in a language that could not be misunderstood. The vessel veered round, spilling the wind out of her great, oddly-shaped sail, which hung flapping from its huge yard.

The Osprey had now forged up within a few times her own length and slowed down.

"Mr. Liddon," said Dave with energy, "you will take the starboard quarter-boat and board that vessel. Arm your crew with cutlasses and revolvers, and if her captain can understand English, tell him I'll blow him out of the water if he doesn't hand over my man."

For the second time within an hour the boat glided down from the davits, and went tossing over the waves, driven by eight pairs of brawny arms.

Before they could reach the side of the junk, a chorus of shouts came from the gunboat they had just left.

The fact was that when the Chinamen saw that the formidable war-ship was really in earnest, a panic seized them. They all shrieked and jabbered together, as their vessel hove to, and Dick Scupp plainly saw that more trouble was coming for him. There seemed to be a dispute between two factions on the junk, one of which screamed and pointed first to Dick and then to the Osprey, and the other pointed as furiously to the hold of the junk. Comprehending that they were discussing whether to restore him to his own ship, or to hide him below decks—possibly with a knife in his heart—and declare innocence, the sailor made ready for action.

The party demanding his concealment seemed to have carried their point, for a number of them now made a rush for Dick, with fierce eyes and with daggers drawn. The seaman sprang to his feet, catching one of his guards with a blow under the ear and tripping the other to the deck. Before a hand could be laid upon him he bounded over the rail into the sea, and began to swim vigorously toward the approaching boat.

All efforts of the crew of the latter were now directed to saving the life of their comrade. Liddon steered skilfully up to him and a moment later he was dragged in over the gunwale, gasping and sputtering. The junk, meanwhile, caught the wind over her bows and filled away again toward the north-east. The Osprey waited to pick up her boat, as the Chinamen thought she would, and another chase was in prospect.

"Stave her to bits! It's an insult to the United States! We can catch up with her in five minutes!" urged the junior officers of the gunboat, gathering around their commander, forgetful of discipline.

Rexdale shook his head, though his teeth were set and his face red with suppressed anger. "We can prove nothing," he said. "They'll swear he was a deserter and concealed himself on board. Uncle Sam doesn't want to take on China or anybody else in this scrappy country just now. We'd be blamed and court-martialled if we should sink a junkful of Chinamen for no better reason than the one we have."

He turned to the pilot. "Full speed ahead, on her course for Chemulpo." Then, calling down to the gun-captain, "Unload and secure!"

Dick was duly disciplined for absenting himself beyond leave, but, considering the hard experience he had undergone, his punishment was made nominal, with a not very severe reprimand from the commander. The dog was named "Junk" and became the rival of the black kitten—though very friendly with her—as the mascot of the Osprey.

CHAPTER XVIII. OSHIMA GOES A-FISHING.

Captain Oshima (promoted from lieutenancy for bravery on the field), of the 10th Regiment in the Second Japanese Army, under General Odzer, was fishing. Like most of the Japanese soldiers he had brought from home, among other effects, a small fishing-line and several hooks. There were hours and even days when he was called upon to perform no active duty beyond routine drills, and in memory of the days when he and Oto used to tramp the brook-sides of dear old Japan, displaying their trophies at night to gently admiring O-Hana-San and the other prim little maids of the village, he had determined to try his luck in this strange, war-swept Manchuria. The hill-tops might be wreathed in battle-smoke and the plains heaped with dead and dying; but in obscure valleys and down slopes which had thus far escaped the tread of martial forces, the ploughshare of the steel shell and the terrible harrow of shrapnel, streamlets laughed and flowed blithely along their pebbled courses, and tiny trout darted to and fro as merrily as in the dreamy days of peace and plenty. So Oshima went a-fishing.

Unrolling his line and attaching it to a neat little pole, cut in a near-by thicket, he took his seat on a boulder and dropped his baited hook in one of the quieter pools of a brook that fed an upper branch of the Faitse River. It was warm, and Oshima took a fan from his pocket and fanned himself gravely as he fished. Every Japanese soldier is provided with a fan. Oshima had often looked back on his company, and on the column trailing behind, on a long march under the scorching Manchurian sun in June, and had seen a thousand little fans fluttering beside the heads of the men.

The Japanese army are not only among the fiercest fighters the world has ever known, but they are dainty in their appointments. With the army go camp-followers who are allowed to sell fans, handkerchiefs, cigarettes, tea, soaps, tooth-brushes, and writing-paper. For the officers are carried great iron kettles in nets, two on a pony; these are used in heating water for baths, as well as to cook the company mess of rice. A few squares of straw matting make a bath-house, and a big stone jar is the tub of comfort for the almond-eyed campaigner. Much time is also spent in correspondence. The field post carried an immense amount of mail every day between Antung and the front. Around the camp of Oshima's regiment could be seen, in the quieter hours of the day, hundreds of soldiers sitting cross-legged under the trees, painting artistic epistles to their dear ones at home with brushes on rolls of thin paper. Oshima himself had written two letters that day; one to his mother and one to O-Hana-San, who was now a volunteer nurse under the Red Cross at a large seaport of the new country. So he went fishing.

He caught three very small trout within an hour. Then he rose, rolled up his line and deposited it in a neat packet, strung the fish upon a twig and was about to return to camp when he noticed a Chinese coolie acting very peculiarly. The man was dressed as a Chinese labourer, with a helmet upon his head, a coarse blouse and thick-soled shoes, like all of his caste. He was carrying two pails of water, which he had just filled at the brook, a few rods below Oshima. This was no unusual occupation for a coolie, although it was surprisingly far from camp; the peculiarity lay in the keenness with which the man surveyed the outworks of the fortifications, and his manner in glancing nervously over his shoulder as he walked off. When he saw Oshima looking at him he almost dropped his pails; then hurried down toward the camp at a pace that soon carried him out of sight.

It was late in the afternoon when the captain—who had dined sumptuously on rice and his three fish—caught sight of the coolie once more. The man was walking past his tent, carrying water as before. Oshima called to him sharply. Apparently the coolie did not hear, for he continued on his way, with head bent and eyes cast down.

Oshima spoke a few words to his orderly, who passed an abrupt order to two privates stationed near headquarters. They at once stepped after the Chinaman, and clapping their hands on his shoulders, turned him round in his tracks and marched him back to the tent.

Oshima viewed the coolie in silence for a moment; then said in Chinese, "What is your name, my man?"

The man held up his water-pails, as if that were a sufficient answer. He had not yet looked his interrogator in the face, but persistently gazed down at the ground.

Oshima scrutinised the fellow intently. Suddenly and without warning the officer sprang to his feet, knocked off the helmet and tweaked the supposed coolie's pigtail. Behold, it came off in his hand! The man stood erect. He dropped his burden. His countenance was pale but firm. He looked his captor in the eye.

"I am an officer in the Third Siberian Reserves," answered the prisoner calmly, in his own language. "My name is Sergius Jalofsky. Volunteers were called for to obtain information as to your forces and defences. I was one of six to volunteer. The other five have, I trust, escaped. I was to return to Liaoyang to-night."

From an inner pocket was produced a paper containing measurements, figures, and plans relating to the encampment. The evidence was convincing, even if the spy, seeing that escape or concealment was impossible, had not made his full confession.

"Hold the prisoner under guard," ordered Oshima. "We will hold a court-martial and settle this matter at once."

The capture of the Russian was reported at once to the colonel of the regiment, and a council of officers was convened. Five minutes' deliberation was sufficient.

"You will die at sunset," said Oshima to the spy. "You are a brave man. You shall be shot."

At a gesture of the captain the guard led away the prisoner, whose countenance had not changed nor features relaxed in the slightest degree when the sentence was pronounced.

The sun was already nearing the mountain-tops in the west, and the cool damp shadows of evening rapidly advanced.

A corporal's guard led the captive to a retired spot at a short distance from the camp. The men formed in line, with loaded muskets ready.

"Sir," said the corporal, "have you any request to make, or message to leave? You are one of the bravest men I ever met. I give you my word your message shall be delivered."

For the first time the Russian's eyes moistened. "I thank you, comrade," said he. "I have but done my duty. It was at the Czar's command. I have no word—yet—I will ask you to send word to my wife in Irkutsk that I died like a man and a soldier." He took his ikon from his breast, kissed it, and bent his head over it a moment. Then, having given his wife's address to the corporal, who wrote it down carefully, he folded his arms and stood erect.

The corporal gently placed the folded arms down at the man's side. "It is well not to cover one's heart," he said. "Death will be very quick."

As the smoke drifted away, the Russian looked upward an instant, with a smile on his bronzed face; then, murmuring "At—the—Czar's—command!" he fell, dead.

Day by day, through the fierce summer heats of June and July, the Japanese strengthened their hold upon lower Manchuria, and tightened the cordon about Port Arthur.

Nanshan Hill and Motien Pass on the east were carried with the bayonet. Kinchow had already fallen, the fire of the Japanese fleet annihilating the Russian batteries in a two-days battle.

When the great Corliss wheel was set up and the massive machinery "assembled" at the Centennial Exposition at Philadelphia, the maker refused to start his engine for a trial before the Exposition was officially opened.

"It will run," he said, "and run smoothly and perfectly. Every part is exact; figures cannot lie."

It was a great risk to take, but the event proved that the manufacturer was right. When the electric signal announced the formal opening of the Fair, steam was let on. The huge piston of the Corliss engine started; the enormous wheel—the largest ever made, up to that time—began to revolve, and in a moment every polished rod and valve and wheel in the great engine was doing its part, running the entire machinery of the hall and performing its work without jar or noise, as smoothly as a child's water-wheel in a wayside brook.

So operated the wondrous, complex machine of the Japanese military system, from the first mobilisation in Tokio, through the hurry and risk of transportation across the inner sea, and in movement after movement, battle after battle, in a country far removed from home. Field telephones kept the commanders in touch with advanced forces; the commissary department fulfilled its duties like clock-work; Kuroki, Oyama, Nodzu, Nogi, moved regiments and divisions to and fro like pieces upon a gigantic chess-board.

The heat was now terrible. More than once a whole battalion rushed into a river to drink, under the full sweep of the enemy's fire. Still the resistless army of small brown men swept onward, marching through fields of Chinese corn, winding along narrow defiles, holding firmly every point of vantage gained.

As the end of August drew near it was evident that the two mighty armies must meet. Minor battles had been fought, and skirmishes had been of almost daily occurrence throughout the campaign, but the vast hordes of armed men from the East and West had not yet been pitted against each other. The time had come at last, and the civilised world held its breath.

The Russian army lay strongly entrenched at Liaoyang, an old town on the line of the railroad between Port Arthur and Harbin. The Japanese had been pouring troops into the peninsula for months, a portion called the Third Army gathering around Port Arthur, under General Nogi, the remainder pressing northward on the heels of the retreating enemy. The objective of the First, Second, and Fourth Armies was Liaoyang. The supreme command of the Japanese forces was now entrusted to Field Marshal Marquis Oyama, who had commanded ten years before, in the war against China.

The three armies, having overcome every obstacle, were in touch before Liaoyang. They formed a huge horse-shoe, with its ends resting on the Taitse River, on the south bank of which stood Liaoyang. The Russians formed an inner horse-shoe in a similar position. On each side were over two hundred thousand men, nearly half a million human beings, all animated with the one desire to kill!

On the morning of August 30th, at the first grey of dawn a puff of white broke upward from the Japanese lines and a shell, filled with shrapnel, flew screaming across the peaceful plain—a dread messenger to announce the beginning of the longest and greatest battle the world had ever known.

One battery after another opened fire, throughout the entire front of nearly forty miles. Under cover of the artillery attack the Russians charged furiously, often driving the Japanese before them at the point of the bayonet; but no sooner was a company or a regiment annihilated than another took its place, and was hurled against the foe. Positions were taken and retaken. The carnage was terrible. Never in the world's history had such enormous masses of men thrown their lives away with utter abandon. On each side a thousand cannon thundered from morning till night. At noon of the second day a slow rain began to fall, transforming the plain into a quagmire, crossed and recrossed by endless trains of men, a part charging toward the front with wild shouts of defiance, a part halting, crawling, limping, or lying in carts, seeking the hospitals, where their ghastly wounds could be treated. When the second night fell it was reported in every capital in both hemispheres that after two days of desperate fighting Kouropatkin had gained a decided advantage.

Fred Larkin was in his element. Dashing to and fro on a shaggy little Siberian pony, he gathered news as if by instinct. His experience in the Spanish-American War served him in good stead, and he not only knew what deductions to draw from certain movements on both sides, but what information was most desired by his paper and the great reading public at home. In Boston the crowds in lower Washington Street read on the bulletin boards the despatches he dashed off in his note-book and sent from the Liaoyang telegraph office after they had been duly censored.

Late in the afternoon on the second day of the battle he was making his way back to the town across the miry fields south of Liaoyang. The shaggy pony shook his mane and snorted as the rain fell, but was too tired to trot.

"Tough day, pony," said Fred, who himself was so used up with his exertions that he could hardly sit upright in the saddle. "Never mind, old boy. In half an hour you will be in your stable, munching oats. You shall have an extra good supper for the hard work you've—hallo! be careful!"

The pony had wandered a little from the main road, which the steady stream of hospital and commissary waggons had made well-nigh impassable, and Fred had allowed him to pick out his own path across the plain so long as his general direction was right. The little animal now interrupted him by shying violently at an object upon which he had almost trampled. Peering down Fred saw a soldier stretched out upon the sodden ground. At first he thought the man was dead, but looking more closely he saw the soldier's hand move slightly, as if to ward off a blow.

"Poor chap!" said Fred, whose kind New England heart the horrors of war had by no means hardened, "I won't hurt you. Are you wounded?"

As the man did not reply, the rider dismounted for a closer examination of the prostrate soldier. Then he uttered an exclamation of pity. It was evident that the man had been struck—probably by a fragment of a shell—and a terrible wound inflicted upon his head. How he had managed to crawl from the firing line as far as this spot, Larkin could not see. It was plainly impossible for him to live. Fred mustered up what little Russian he could command and spoke gently to the poor fellow, whose life was going fast.

"Ivan—Ivanovitch," gasped the soldier, making a great effort to speak. "I do not—know—I do not understand—I am a—soldier of—Russia—It was the command—the Little Father—ah-h!"

He spoke no more, but lay quiet and silent, his white, boyish face, upturned to the slow rain. Fred opened his military coat, and laid his hand upon Ivan's breast. The ikon was there, treasured to the last; but the heart no longer beat. At the Little Father's command, Ivan Ivanovitch, like thousands of his comrades, not knowing why, not understanding, but faithful to the last, had given up his home, his dear ones, his life.

With a long sigh Fred drew the flap of the young soldier's coat over the still face, remounted his pony, and rode on towards Liaoyang.

He found the town in a state of wild confusion, with heavy carts rumbling through the ill-made streets, crowds of wounded men on their way to the hospitals and the trains for Mukden; refugees clamouring at the railroad station, householders removing their goods, and thousands of people hurrying to and fro like ants in a breached ant-hill. With much difficulty the reporter got a brief dispatch through to the Bulletin, and sought a well-earned rest at his lodgings near the station.

Night after night the cannon thundered, and day after day the battle raged. The Russian front was now crowded in from thirty miles to less than eight. At great risk Oyama resolved to divide his army, and attempt a flanking movement, which proved successful. On the seventh day of the battle, Kuroki threw a strong force across the Taitse, ten miles above the town. This movement turned the scale. Kouropatkin gave orders to fall back on Mukden.

Larkin, meanwhile, was doing the work of half a dozen reporters and a Good Samaritan besides. He took his place beside the surgeons and nurses, whenever he could leave the firing line, and laboured by the hour, caring for the wounded, especially the Chinese who suffered the fate of those caught between two conflicting forces. The losses on both sides had been fearful, and the amount of ammunition expended almost incredible. In one day of the battle the Russian artillerists reported one hundred thousand shots fired.

Fred was assured at headquarters, on the day of Kuroki's flank movement, that in any case Liaoyang would not be evacuated for forty-eight hours; so he toiled on, in good faith, making no special provision for his withdrawal from the front, but intending to accompany the Russian army in its retreat. The next morning what was his surprise, on emerging from his lodgings, to find the town deserted by Kouropatkin's forces. Japanese flags were already flying from almost every house and shop of the Chinese inhabitants. Shells were bursting in the streets, and the Japanese army was reported just outside the gates.

He hurried to the railway station, only to find that the last train had gone. There seemed no way of escape, without crossing the fire-swept zone in the rear of the retreating army. Fred reluctantly faced the conclusion that he must return to the hospital and submit to inglorious capture, if no worse, at the hands of the Japanese; and this when he was ordered to "remain with the Russian army" by his own "Czar," the chief of the Daily Bulletin. The reporter ground his teeth as he stood irresolute, in a sheltering doorway. At that moment he happened to glance upward, and a huge, ungainly object, showing above the low roofs of the surrounding buildings, caught his eye. At first it meant nothing to him. "The balloon section have run and left their big gas-bag behind them," he said to himself mechanically. Throughout the fight a balloon had hovered above each of the contending armies, the occupants spying out the dispositions of the enemy's forces and telephoning from aloft to the commanders' headquarters. It was evident that the Russians, startled by the hurried orders to retreat, had obeyed so hastily as to leave their charge behind, to fall into the hands of the Japanese.

A thought flashed across Fred Larkin's quick brain as he gazed upon the swelling expanse of tawny silk. Quitting the doorway where he had taken refuge from the bursting shells, and snatching a Japanese flag as he ran, he made for the balloon. It was suspended over a small square, held down by a strong hemp cable. To spring into the car was the work of a moment. He drew his knife and was about to sever the rope when a shriek rang out from a neighbouring street and a man was seen running toward the square, pursued by half a dozen Chinamen.

CHAPTER XV. UNDER THE RED CROSS.

FOOTNOTE:

CHAPTER XVI. THE LAST TRAIN FROM PORT ARTHUR.

CHAPTER XVII. DICK SCUPP'S ADVENTURE.

CHAPTER XVIII. OSHIMA GOES A-FISHING.