le of captain,
and no one could recognize in him the ragged, bare-footed fisher-boy of
thirty-five years ago. But it is Bob Jennings, and he is to-day the
proprietor of the office and elevator that formerly belonged to Mr.
Newcombe. Although he is not so large a ship-owner, he is wealthy, and
his business is still increasing. The schooner discharging her cargo is
named after his benefactor, J. M. Evans, and the ship which is receiving
it, and which is to take it to Europe, is the Go Ahead. Strangers think
it an odd name for a vessel, but those who are acquainted with the
history of her owner do not wonder at it. Those who enter the office see
over the captain's desk two mottoes in gilt letters, to the faithful
observance of which he says he owes his success in life. We know that at
one time Bob lost faith in his first motto, but the experience of a
life-time has convinced him that it can be depended upon.

While Captain Jennings and his friends stood on the wharf conversing, a
party of half a dozen students, all of them officers belonging to the
academy squadron, came up. Among them were the admiral, fleet captain,
and the commanders of the vessels. The foremost, a boy about fifteen
years of age, who carried in his hand a model of a full-rigged ship,
with sails and ropes complete, wore an anchor and gold leaf in his
shoulder-strap, and four stripes of gold lace and a star on each arm. He
was Bob Jennings, junior, the second lieutenant of the Zephyr. His
brother George, two years younger, was the ranking midshipman on board
the White Cloud, the flag-ship, and the swiftest vessel in the squadron.
The young officers appeared to be excited about something, for they were
walking rapidly and talking very earnestly.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Mr. Harding, when the students had come within
speaking distance. "What are you going to do with that ship, Bob? Do you
intend to enter her at the next regatta to beat the White Cloud?"

"No, sir," replied the lieutenant. "I bought it to put on the mantle in
my room. Say, father, do you know there is a man in Fishertown who
hasn't had any thing to eat for two days?"

"No," replied Captain Jennings, "I didn't know it. Who is he?"

"Jack Crosstree, that old fisherman."

"He is a man-of-war's man, too," chimed in the midshipman, "and we're
not going to stand by and see him suffer."

"Of course not," said Mr. Harding, with a merry twinkle in his eye, "you
are old men-of-war's men yourselves,