ORDERS ARE ORDERS.
Meantime, on board the _Seneca_, Herc had been feeling intense anxiety
over the non-return of Midshipman Kenworth. To add to his uneasiness,
also, Saki, who had been sent ashore to order some fresh provisions,
had not returned.
The crew of the gig had waited for the Jap that evening (the evening of
Ned's departure) for more than two hours. The village was some little
distance back from the shore and they allowed him ample time to go and
return, considering the fact that a trolley line connected with the
place.
When he did not return within that time, the coxswain ordered a return
to the ship to receive further orders from Herc, acting commandant.
Herc, in some perplexity as to the best course to pursue, finally
decided to order a picket party to find out what had become of the
Oriental.
A thorough search of the village was made and at length, in a garage,
they struck the trail of the yellow man. It appeared that he had rented
a car there and departed for parts unknown.
Herc decided to wait for the return of the driver. He felt in a vague
yet positive way that there was more underlying the disappearance of
the Japanese than could be accounted for on the supposition that he had
gone off on an undisciplined joy ride.
The chauffeur returned at last. He had taken Saki to a town where the
Jap had boarded a train of the main line of the Long Island Railroad.
That was all he knew. He had been well paid, he volunteered, and
also added that the Jap had paid him from a roll that "would trip a
greyhound."
"Now what would the steward of a gunboat be doing with all that money?"
mused Herc.
He pondered for a time the advisability of trying to follow the trail
of the Jap; but reflection convinced him that this would be useless.
Besides, the fact that he was responsible for the _Seneca_ would have
precluded the idea. He could not make it an excuse for deserting his
post that he had been in pursuit of a mere steward; and they had not
any actual proof against Saki to show that he was anything more than a
deserter.
His description was, however, sent out broadcast, as a renegade from
the navy. This done, Herc, feeling downcast and uneasy, returned to
the ship. He felt depressed. Influences of evil were at work, he felt
sure of it. But the very indefiniteness of his suspicions made them the
harder to bear.
"At least, I can find out if Saki was lying about being short of fresh
vegetables," he said.
The assistant steward, a negro named after the ship where he had last
served, Tennessee, was summoned. Herc made an inspection with him and
found his worst suspicions verified. Far from being short of fresh
provisions, the ship's refrigerators were amply stocked. There was no
shortage anywhere that would justify the decamping steward's excuse to
get ashore.
"Huh! if I'd only had horse sense enough to do this a while ago," mused
Herc gloomily, "that fellow would have stood no more chance to get off
this ship than a man would have to sell refrigerators at the North
Pole. I'm a fine dunderhead, I am."
No wireless messages came that night, and the morning brought no news
of Ned. Nor did Kenworth reappear at the appointed time.
Herc began to be seriously worried. What could have happened? The
survey of the mine planting operations could not have taken more than
a day. Ned should certainly have been heard from. The silence and
mystery that were closing in about Herc began to get on his nerves.
Still he attended dutifully to the routine of the ship, and Trevor, the
operator, was under orders to report to him the instant anything came
over the wireless. So the day wore away and with nightfall the wireless
began to spit and splutter.
What Herc had dreaded had happened. The flagship was asking for Ned.
Herc was in a terrible quandary. He could not tell a lie and pretend
that Ned was on board or had been heard from. Yet if he did not shield
his comrade in some way, Ned was almost certain, unless he had an
excellent excuse for his absence, to get into serious trouble. Even a
courtmartial might result.
At length the wireless became imperative.
"If Lieutenant Strong not on board, get in instant communication with
him. Important.--Dunham."
"Try and get the flagship again," Herc ordered.
Trevor bent over his key. For a long time he kept sending his crackling
waves out into space. But no answer came.
"Can't you get 'em?" demanded Herc impatiently.
The operator shook his head dismally.
"No use trying. The air is full of messages. They're buzzing like flies
round a honey-pot. I'll try again later on, sir."
Herc began to see that the command of the _Seneca_ was not going to
prove any bed of roses. Already he was plunged into the middle of a
puzzle to which there appeared to be no key.
Not only had Kenworth and the Jap vanished, but Ned Strong was not to
be found. Yet there were the orders: "Get in instant communication with
him."
Herc gave a dismal groan. The more he thought matters over, the more
complicated did they become.
"By the bald-headed American steer," he grunted, in the seclusion
of his cabin, "this beats anything I ever tackled. However, orders
are orders and must be obeyed to the letter. I've got to get into
communication with Ned. Just as if I wouldn't have done that long ago
if I'd had the chance!"
Turning the command of the ship over to one of the warrant officers,
Herc changed into plain clothes and then summoned the crew of his gig.
He was rowed ashore and sought out the man from whom Ned had rented the
gasoline craft which took him to Civic Island.
The man could shed no light on the matter, beyond saying that he had
taken Ned to his destination. A sudden determination came over Herc.
Ned had, then, arrived at Civic Island. He must go there at once and
take up the trail.
"It's a blind one," he muttered, "but I'll follow it to the end if it
costs me my commission."
Some time later the same gasoline craft that had conveyed Ned, landed
Herc at Civic Island. It had fought its way alongshore through the same
storm that had brought disaster to Ned. Despite the idea he had formed
of the difficulties of the task in front of him, Herc did not imagine,
even in his more despondent moments, what a trail of trouble it was
that he had set out upon.