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The day of work was at hand at the United States Naval Academy, situated in that quaint, sleepy old town of Annapolis, whose greatest attractions are its antiquity and its sea school.

The time had come when the “future admirals,” the “heroes in embryo” were to cease their flirting and “bone” with all their hearts and heads in latitudes, longitudes, parallelograms, tonnage, displacement, and all the other studies necessary to make the greenhorn a perfect sailor.

The middies had returned from their summer cruise, the “academy” had awakened from its lazy slumber of weeks, and all were looking forward to the year before them with varied feelings of hopes and fears.

Those who had already served one or more terms at the academy felt their superiority unquestioned to the unfortunate “Plebe,” who was standing upon the threshold in fear and trembling of what was before him.

Standing on the sea-wall of the academy grounds one afternoon a month or more after the bold act of Mark Merrill in saving the yacht Midshipman from destruction in Hopeless Haven, on the coast of Maine, were a number of middies, unmindful of the beauties of the scene about them, the old training ship with its history of the past, waters of the Severn lashed into foam under a gale that was blowing up the Chesapeake, visible over a league away, tossing in angry billows, a vessel of war anchored off in midstream, and the ancient town of Annapolis to the right, with its fleet of oyster boats fretting their cables as they plunged and reeled on the incoming waves—I say unmindful of the scene about them, the group of young sailors had their eyes riveted upon a small schooner which had shot around Bay Ridge Point at a tremendous speed, jibed her sails to starboard most skillfully, though she reeled low under the shock, and came tearing up to the town in gallant style.