THE “WHITE SHARK” AND THE SQUADRON.
Mr. Dancer worked on his odd-looking collection of levers and buttons,
and the _White Shark_ obediently shot upward, but, of course, not at
so sharp an angle as that at which she had descended to escape the
battleship’s prow. In a few seconds she was near the surface, as the
periscope indicated.
To avoid the danger of coming up under another battleship, which has,
by the way, destroyed dozens of submarines, Mr. Dancer rose to the
surface on a long, slanting course. As he glanced at the periscope
indicator he saw that they were by no means too far off for safety—that
is, had the fleet been in motion. But the periscope disclosed it lying
motionless, while small boats dotted the water in every direction.
“Chadwick, how’s your patient?” called out Mr. Dancer.
“Oh, better. He is sitting up. When we are ready we can transfer him
back to his ship.”
“That was a white thing you did for me, mates,” declared the sailor,
who told them that his name was Jim Harding. “I’ll never forget it,
either, see if I do.”
“That’s all right,” declared Jack; “glad to get you out safe and sound.
But how did you come to go overboard?”
“I dunno exactly. I was standing on the deck rail with some of my
mates, when all of a sudden two fellers, skylarking behind me, bumped
into me. I guess I was too much interested in your craft here to pay
much attention to what I was doing. The first thing you know I found
myself in the water. My! That was an awful struggle! I guess I came
pretty near taking you down with me, too,” he went on, addressing Jack.
“Well, if you did, I gave you a good sound crack on the head,” laughed
Jack; “it was the only thing to do.”
“Course it was, mate,” rejoined the other. “I wondered what made my
head so sore there.”
“Pigeon’s egg on it, eh?”
“All of that. Feels more like a turkey’s. Say, this craft’s got any of
our navy submarines beat.”
At this instant Mr. Dancer’s voice came again.
“We are in the middle of the fleet,” he hailed. “I’m going to play a
trick, or, rather, I have played it.”
“What is it?” inquired Mr. Chadwick.
“Why, I’m running submerged with only just the tip of the periscope out
of the water. One would have to have sharp eyes to see it yet. Although
we are twenty-five feet down, I can see all that is on the surface of
the water.”
“Yes, but what’s the trick?” urged Jack.
“Have the panel ready to slide back. Then you all get under it. When
the companion way register points to ‘Open!’ you operate the machinery
that slides it back.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Chadwick, “what are your next instructions?”
“As soon as the panel is open, run out on deck and give a good, hearty
cheer. I’ll join you.”
They congregated under the panel.
“All right!” came Mr. Dancer’s voice after a short interval.
Click! Back slid the panel. In rushed fresh air and sunlight.
“Now, boys, remember the instructions,” was Jack’s father’s warning as
they stumbled up the steel steps toward the parallelogram of air and
light.
With great self-control the boys held back their enthusiasm till
ordered to “cut loose.” It was the more hard to do this, as from every
ship came a deep, roaring and booming of cheers for the plucky little
submarine craft and her brave ship’s company.
All about lay men-o’-war boats, ordered out on a search, doubtless, and
each huge battleship lay motionless. It made a wonderful picture to the
group that stood on the drenched decks of the submarine that had just
risen from the depths, to which not many minutes ago it had appeared
that she was consigned forever.
Practically every battleship in the squadron knew by wireless and
signaling of what had occurred. They had learned how the men on
the leading battleship, _Manhattan Island_, had seen the submarine
apparently rammed and sunk by the craft second in line, the _San
Francisco_. The reappearance of the small diving craft was deemed
wonderful, because several of the keenest sighted officers had been
prepared to swear that they saw the actual impact.
Wonderful enough, Old Glory, drenched and dripping from the dive, still
hung at the stern of the _White Shark_.
“Jack, hustle astern and get those colors!” cried Mr. Chadwick.
The boy hastened aft and released the flagpole from its socket.
Reverently he bore the colors forward.
“Now wave them with all your might!” came the order.
As Jack, with all the power his muscular young arms could command,
waved the colors, strenuously renewed cheers came from the battleships.
They were in response to a burst of cheers from the company of the
_White Shark_, among whom Jim Harding stood waving to his shipmates,—a
man literally snatched from a double grave.
Across the back of the submarine, almost amidships, was a deep dent;
but no other harm had been done. The battleship had struck her a
glancing blow just as she dived, but had it come an inch closer the
injury would have proved fatal to the career of the _White Shark_ and
its crew.
“Come aboard!” bellowed an officer of the _Manhattan Island_ as the
_White Shark_ moved ’longside the gangway to send the sailor Harding
back on board.
“No time. Thanks just the same,” rejoined Mr. Chadwick.
“Can we do anything for you?”
“Nothing at all, thanks. Good-bye!”
“Jove, you are brave men, and those boys are the salt of the earth,”
came from another officer on the bridge.
“You had a jolly close shave, though,” reminded another. “We thought
you were gone for a minute.”
“So did we,” laughed Mr. Chadwick in response—“for a minute.”
Surrounded by his mates, Harding made his way up the gangway and on
board, after bidding a grateful farewell to those who had risked their
lives to save his. For half an hour pleasant chat was exchanged,
and the officers of the _San Francisco_ came rowing up and offered
apologies for having almost ended the _White Shark’s_ existence.
They were accepted freely. Mr. Chadwick and Mr. Dancer fully
understood that to check the way of a big battleship, or even to alter
her course, is not the work of an instant. It was due to this that the
near-casualty had occurred, the lookouts on the _San Francisco_ not
having seen the inconspicuous part of the _White Shark_ which appeared
above water till almost above her. It was then too late.
The shock which had shaken the _White Shark_ to its bed plates had
not been felt on the battleship any more than a mosquito would be
noticeable to a mammoth. Even had the submarine been cut in two, the
shock would not have been perceptible on the _San Francisco_.
“That just shows you that a ship might hit us at night and they’d never
know they’d sent us to the bottom,” cried Tom in dismay.
“You’re a cheerful talker,” struck in Jack, who was one of the group;
“but come, there go the signals to get under way. The boats are in, and
look at the smoke and steam pouring from the funnels! Goodness, what a
formidable-looking fleet! Uncle Sam has no reason to be ashamed of his
navy.”
“I should say not,” struck in Silas Hardtack; “but on the old _Ohio_ we
thought we were pretty good; and I guess we were, too,” he concluded
modestly.
Amidst waving and cheering and mutual shouts of good will, the fleet
swept by, the crew of the _White Shark_ standing respectfully at
salute as one after another the great vessels glided past in stately
procession.
At length the last of the column swept by, and then, and only then, did
the _White Shark_ head round once more on her course.
“We lost some time,” declared Mr. Chadwick as they stood gazing after
the fast diminishing outlines of the battleships, “but it was worth it.”
“An’ now, gents, am you comin’ to dat dinner, or am yo’ gwine ter spite
yo’ stomachs till supper time?”
It was not till then that they recalled that they had eaten nothing,
all thoughts of food having been swept aside by the excitement of the
scenes they had just gone through.