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and yellow pennants dart up from the Connecticut's signal bridge.  The shine and spangle was all fine, of course.  But nothing matched this sight: the flagship and the fleet.
    And the prospect of the journey they were about to undertake.
    Over the summer, ships from all over the world had anchored off the mouth of the James. Guns and aigrettes bristled as battle squadrons from Britain, Japan, Germany, France, Austria-Hungary, Italy and a half dozen lesser powers puffed and pouted for the citizens attending the great Jamestown Exposition.  The excitement had been grand, the competition fierce--not exactly a comity of nations, but who cared?  Gathered in a mighty heap in Hampton Roads, it seemed Man could take on the universe.  Eventually, though, the party ended.  The fleets sailed home.  Except, of course, the one that was already home.  Norfolk was the sally port of the mighty Atlantic Fleet.
    There were twenty battleships in the Grand Atlantic Fleet.  Sixteen of them were present, while the rest were in dry dock for repairs and maintenance.  Hulls painted a dazzling white, they were like angels in metal studs--as much a boast of moral purity as of puissance.
    "And about as clear a row of sitting ducks as was ever set up for the shoot," said Dr. Singleton from the foredeck of  the Indiana class Florida, in the Third Division.
    Midshipman Davis winced.  The president himself was being ferried past them, and Singleton still could not hide his want of patriotism.
    The crew had manned the starboard rail for side honors and a cheer burst forth as Roosevelt waved at them from the barge.  Up on the bridge, Captain Oates wondered how familiar the Chief Executive was with the Fleet's signal book, since every morning at four bells of the forenoon watch the ships hoisted flags indicating their number of sick and absentees.  One of the fiercest rivalries between the captains manifested at this time, the winning ship showing the lowest number.  As of yet, the Admiral had given no indication these flags should be lowered.  Pride and shame were pennants for all to see.  The Florida had come in second from the last--some consolation since that was better than usual.
    Oates frowned at the way his men abandoned themselves to the cheer.  The lack of decorum bothered him.  But he had it from Evans himself that the president preferred extravagant displays of enthusiasm from his men over dour obedience.
    One questioned the Rear Admiral at one's peril.  "Fighting Bob" Evans had earned his sobriquet off the coast of South America in 1891.  When the Chilean government aimed some rude noises at the United States, Robley D. Evans sailed into Valparaiso and threatened to blow up Chile's navy if they did not promptly apologize - - which they did.
    Chile! Captain Oates snorted inwardly.  What a coup!  What a magnificent victory!
    True, Evans had fought honorably in the Spanish - American War, was even credited with destroying the enemy flagship at Santiago.  But that was not where he had gotten his nickname.
    Chile!   It said worlds about the Rear Admiral.  He was not ashamed to use the big stick, no matter how small the prey.  So when he told his captains to allow their bluejackets to engage in spontaneous shouting, cheering, frolicking and other foolish behavior that evinced good morale, the captains bit the bullet.
    Chile!
    Captain Oates saluted as the president waved.  Below and forward, he spotted the peculiar straw hat Dr. Singleton always wore--one more care he did not want to count.  The day Singleton came on board, Oates knew that the doctor was going to rub him the wrong way.  One of the Navy's unwritten laws was that officers had their own personal spaces, as well as their private ways of getting there.  The starboard side of the quarterdeck belonged to the captain.  While there, no one was to approach unless he signaled them to do so.  To port other officers congregated, avoiding the captain's gaze but keen for