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.

“There’s a bold skipper at the helm of that craft,” said Cadet Captain Byrd Bascomb, of the first class, with the air of one whose superior knowledge no one could contradict.

“He is too bold, for he carries too much sail for safety,” Midshipman Herbert Nazro responded, for he observed that the little schooner was carrying only a single-reefed mainsail.

“She’s one of those deep-keeled yachts that can stand her canvas,” Cadet Lieutenant Frank Latrobe added.

“Yes, and her foolhardy skipper will carry the sticks out of her yet before she reaches port,” put in Midshipman Winslow Dillingham.

“I guess he knows his craft; if he does not, he’s a fool,” was the decided opinion of Midshipman Harbor Driggs.

“Ha! what did I tell you?” cried Captain Byrd Bascomb, as a terrific squall struck the little vessel, causing her to lay over until her keel was visible.

“Aha! well done that!”

“Wasn’t it beautiful!”

“That skipper knows himself and his ship, too!”

Such were the admiring expressions that went up from the crowd of young sailors as the yacht was splendidly rescued from her danger and sent along, as before, in the same rushing style by her bold helmsman.

“Ah! he is heading for an anchorage off here!” said Cadet Captain Byrd Bascomb, as the schooner’s sheets were eased off and her prow headed away before the wind.

On she flew, at the same mad speed, reeling, staggering, rolling, until her boom ends dipped, but held on unswervingly straight toward the vessel-of-war anchored off the grounds in the Levern River.

“By Neptune’s beard, men, but that is a youngster at the helm of that craft,” cried Byrd Bascomb, as he put his glass to his eye.

It was not long before all could discover the truth of this, and that three men were all else to be seen upon the deck of the schooner, one of these forward, another at the foresheet halyards, the third at the main sheet.

Like a rocket she sped under the stern of the vessel-of-war, and then there came an order from the helmsman, the sheets were hauled in and made fast, and luffing up sharp, the anchor was let fall, the sails came down on a run, and ten minutes after a boat left her side and pulled for the shore.

The cadets lounged up to meet the single occupant of the little boat, which was a surf-skiff, and though tossed about upon the waves, was handled with a skill which caused the middies to set the rower down as a master of the oars.

The oarsman sprang ashore, touched his hat politely, and asked nobody in particular:

“May I ask where I will find the commandant of the Naval School?”

Then the innate deviltry of the juvenile tar asserted itself, and a look of mischief flashed from eye to eye, a sort of telegraphy, which said:

“Here’s fun for us.”

They saw before them a bronze-faced youth of seventeen, perhaps, with a splendidly knit frame, clad in spotless duck trousers, a sailor shirt, beneath the wide collar of which a black silk scarf was knotted, and a tarpaulin cocked on the side of his head in a kind of devil-I-care way.

“Have you the oysters the commandant ordered?” asked Midshipman Dillingham, with a look of intense innocence.

The dark face of the young sailor flushed, but he responded with dignity:

“My name is Mark Merrill, and I have orders to report here to be examined for the berth of midshipman in the United States Navy.”