At the Fall of Port Arthur: or, A Young American in the Japanese Navy

"Is that you, Peterson?" demanded Semmel, in his native tongue, for he knew that the other could speak Russian fluently.

"Yes," came in a rough voice from Peterson. He gave a coarse laugh. "A fine job you made of it, to pour dirty water over Russell and then have to swab up the deck for it."

"Who told you of that?"

"Didn't I see it with my own eyes – and heard what the captain said, too."

"Bah! It makes me sick!" growled Semmel. "I am sick of the ship – the crew – everything!"

Peterson gave a short toss of his head, which was covered with a shock of fiery red hair. "What are you going to do about it? Even if the captain treats you like a dog, what shall you do, Ostag Semmel? He thinks we are all curs – door mats to wipe feet on!"

"He shall find out that I am neither a dog nor a door mat!" muttered the bearded Russian. "By my right hand I promise you that!"

"Talk is cheap – it takes wind to make the mill go," answered Peterson. To an outsider it would have been plain to see that he was leading Semmel on, in an endeavor to find out what was in his companion's mind.

"It will not end in talk."

"Bah! I have heard that before."

"I have been thinking," went on Ostag Semmel, slowly. "Can I trust you?"

"You know you can."

"You do not love the captain – do not love that Russell?"

"Do I act as if I did?"

"Good! Now, how many on board of this ship?"

"Fourteen men, counting in ourselves."

"You count fairly. Fourteen, how many are our friends?"

"Postnak and Conroy, at least."

"Then we are four, so far. Now, what of Groot and Shamhaven and Jack Wilbur?"

"Groot is a good fellow and a man who wishes to make money."

"And Shamhaven will do almost anything for money – he once told me so. He took a sailor suit from a store in Manila without paying for it."

"I know that too. The tailor was rich and didn't need the money," and Peterson gave another coarse laugh.

"Then we are six – to stand up for our rights. And Jack Wilbur will make seven – just half the number on the ship."

"How can we count that Wilbur in? He is a Yankee."

"He is a weakling and we can manage him, – and I think we can manage some others, too – when we get that far."

"How far do you mean?" demanded Peterson, although he knew about what was coming.

"Is anybody else near here?"

"No," and Peterson took a careful look around.

"Supposing we seize the ship – in the name of the Russian Government? They have a Japanese cargo on board, the captain cannot deny it. We can take the ship, sail her to some Russian port, and win both prize money and glory. Is it not a grand scheme?"

"Ha, that is fine!" Carl Peterson's eyes glowed voraciously. "Ostag, you are a man after my own heart! We might become rich!"

"Then you like the plan?"

"Yes – providing we can make it work. But it is a big undertaking. If we were caught we might swing from a yardarm for it."

"We can make it work – I have another plan for that. I have thought it out completely. We can – but more later," and Ostag Semmel broke off abruptly, as several sailors entered the forecastle. A little later he began to complain in broken English to a sailor named Jack Wilbur that he was suffering from a severe stomach ache.

"Sorry to hear on it," said Wilbur, who was a very mild foremast hand. "Anything I can do for you?"

"I dink not," answered Semmel. "I dink de poor grub ve git mak me feel pad."

"Didn't notice that the grub was poor," answered Wilbur.

"Very poor – not so goot as py my las' ship," answered Semmel. "Some grub here not fit to eat."

It was soon noised around that Semmel was not feeling well and that he had complained that the food dealt out at noontime had made him sick. As soon as Captain Ponsberry heard of this he went to interview Jeff, the colored cook, who, as of old, was singing gayly to himself among the pots and pans of the ship's galley.

"Wasn't nuffin de mattah wid dat grub, Cap'n Ponsberry," exclaimed Jeff, after hearing what the commander of the ship had to say. "It was jess as good as we always has."

"Was it thoroughly cooked?"

"Yes, sah – I don't 'low nuffin to go from dis yere galley 'less it am well cooked."

"Are your pots and kettles clean?"

"Yes, sah – yo' can see fo' yourself, sah."

The captain did see, and moreover he knew that Jeff was usually a careful and conscientious culinary artist who always gave the men the best his stock afforded.

"Well, be careful of what you cook and how you cook it after this," said Captain Ponsberry.

"Would yo' mind tellin' me, sah, who is kicking, sah?" asked Jeff, respectfully.

"Semmel says he was made sick by what he ate."

"Huh, dat scab!" grunted Jeff. "He ain't no 'count at all, he ain't!" And the cook turned away in disgust.

"It looks to me as if Semmel was trying to make trouble all around," said Tom Grandon, when he and the captain and Larry talked the matter over.

"I never liked that man from the first time I clapped eyes on him," came from Larry. "He's a sneak – and worse."