It was as Grafton said.  Far ahead went the flag-ship with the huge Commander-in-Chief and his staff, the gorgeous attaches, and the artists and correspondents, with valets, orderlies, stenographers, and secretaries.  Somewhere, far to the rear, one ship was filled with newspaper men from stem to stern.  But wily Grafton was with Lawton and Chaffee, the only correspondent aboard their transport.  On the second day, as he sat on the poop-deck, a negro boy came up to him, grinning uneasily: 

“I seed you back in ole Kentuck, suh.”

“You did?  Well, I don’t remember seeing you.  What do you want?”

“Captain say he gwine to throw me overboard.”

“What for?”

“I ain’t got no business here, suh.”

“Then what are you here for?”

“Lookin’ fer Ole Cap’n, suh.”

“Ole Cap’n who?” said Grafton, mimicking.

“Cap’n Crittenden, suh.”

“Well, if you are his servant, I suppose they won’t throw you overboard.  What’s your name?”

“Bob, suh—­Bob Crittenden.”

“Crittenden,” repeated Grafton, smiling.  “Oh, yes, I know him; I should say so!  So he’s a Captain?”

“Yes, suh,” said Bob, not quite sure whether he was lying or not.

Grafton spoke to an officer, and was allowed to take Bob for his own servant, though the officer said he did not remember any captain of that name in the —­th.  To the newspaper man, Bob was a godsend; for humour was scarce on board, and “jollying” Bob was a welcome diversion.  He learned many things of Crittenden and the Crittendens, and what great people they had always been and still were; but at a certain point Bob was evasive or dumb—­and the correspondent respected the servant’s delicacy about family affairs and went no further along that line—­he had no curiosity, and was questioning idly and for fun, but treated Bob kindly and, in return, the fat of the ship, through Bob’s keen eye and quick hand, was his, thereafter, from day to day.

Grafton was not storing up much material for use; but he would have been much surprised if he could have looked straight across to the deck of the ship running parallel to his and have seen the dignified young statesman whom he had heard speak at the recruiting camp in Kentucky; who made him think of Henry Clay; whom he had seen whisking a beautiful girl from the camp in the smartest turn-out he had seen South—­had seen him now as Private Crittenden, with his fast friend, Abe Long, and passing in his company because of his bearing under a soubriquet donated by his late enemy, Reynolds, as “Old Hamlet of Kentuck.”  And Crittenden would have been surprised had he known that the active darky whom he saw carrying coffee and shoes to a certain stateroom was none other than Bob waiting on Grafton.  And that the Rough Rider whom he saw scribbling on a pad in the rigging of the Yucatan was none other than Basil writing one of his bulletins home.