Through the conning tower hatch of the submarine emerged a sailor,
holding high a brilliant flare that looked like a small searchlight.
“What’s your number, lads?” he hailed.
“Four of us, sir,” weakly responded Jimmy.
The sailor stepped out on the slippery deck of the boat, that
alternately rose and fell in the swell of the sea.
“Whereaway?” questioned the sailor.
“To the bottom of the sea, if you don’t give us a lift,” replied Jimmy.
The sailor turned to the hatch, sent a call below, and two more jaunty
tars sprang through the opening.
One of the last comers was just a youngster in years, but evidently
qualified for his dangerous calling.
“By the ghost of Bloomsbury Park,” he exclaimed, when extending a
helping hand to Jimmy, and when the latter’s face showed in the shine
of the flare, “if it isn’t Stetson!”
“I’ll be blowed if it isn’t Ned!” Jimmy had joined familiar company, it
seemed.
“Seven hands ’round, Jimmy,” cried the young sailor, “did you drop from
the clouds?”
“No,” said Jimmy, wringing the water from his cap, “I came by the
boiler route to help celebrate your birthday.”
In the meantime, Jimmy’s fellow swimmers had been assisted to the deck,
and were practicing again the art of drawing a long breath.
All of the wet ones had begun to shiver, for the wind had a sharp edge
to it.
“Bring them below”--this command from the conning tower, by a fourth
sailor, who appeared to speak with authority.
Glad of the chance to get under cover, the chilly explosion survivors
followed the officer below the hatch, and immensely enjoyed the warmth
of the snug quarters.
“You’ll find this isn’t much of a passenger boat, my lads; it fits too
tight to suit most people.” This remark from the officer showing the
way.
“It felt mighty good to us when we couldn’t find the bottom of the sea
with our feet.”
Billy’s happy disposition was again working.
It was Jimmy’s hour, this business of being inside of a submarine. Our
Aviator Boys might be princes of the air, but down here Jimmy Stetson
was the ace, and all the other cards. He could not give Henri any
points that would puzzle about the gasoline engine that furnished the
power when the craft was running on the surface, and, perhaps, not a
great deal that was new about the electric motor that propelled the
boat when under the water, but to all of the visiting boys, except
Jimmy, there was much of mystery about the way the vessel was raised
and lowered.
How, when the ballast tanks are full, they sink the hull of the
submarine until only the periscope and top of the conning tower
are visible, and, when empty, the whole of the conning tower,
superstructure, and a portion of the hull ride above the water.
How hydroplanes--short, broad fins--tilt the nose of the vessel so that
the propeller can drive the craft down fifty or sixty feet.
Jimmy knew all about it, and the sailors let him have all the pleasure
of telling it to his wondering companions.
The guarded screw propeller aft and outside, the vertical steering
rudders behind it, the air flasks which supply the crew with air when
the vessel is submerged, the torpedo equipment--all the details thereof
were reeled off by the Dover boy with great gusto.
Ned Belton, with whom Jimmy had trained for submarine service in
London, laughingly nominated his friend, there and then, for head
talker on a sight-seeing ’bus.
With roving commission, the submarine was lazily drifting, half
submerged, within sight of the lighthouse with the famous hexagonal
tower, near Nieuport-Bains, a little seaside resort in Belgium.
The boys had realized that it was considerable of a cramp for the
submarine to carry passengers in the limited space allotted to the
crew, and barring this extreme emergency, it would not have done at all
for this fighting machine to serve any other than the purpose intended.
It was agreed that the submarine would go as far as Dunkirk, in the
hope that opportunity would there present itself for the passengers to
pursue the returning course in some other vessel.
A surprise beyond any dream of great fortune awaited them at Dunkirk.
This port just then was a working out point for aircraft for scout duty
on the North Sea.
From the conning tower of the submarine Henri and Billy were watching
with keen interest the aërial maneuvers then in progress. Suddenly the
lighter machines were overshadowed by a flying shape that darted like
an eagle among sparrows.
The long, tapering hull, and the float attachments, the trim, wicked
gun in the bow, proclaimed this giant patrol of the air a fighting
sea-plane.
With engines quiet, down dived the great steel-breasted bird; then a
swift upturning and she shot level upon the water and rode the waves
like a swan.
A stone could easily have been tossed from the bridge of the submarine
upon the upper plane of the aircraft, so near together were they.
The pilot of the sea-plane turned to view the rival factor in modern
warfare, half rising as he did so.
Mutual recognition flashed across the few separating yards of distance.
“Hello, captain!” shouted Billy.
“Hello yourself, Billy Barry!” came the answering shout.
“Whoopee!” This was Josh Freeman’s joyful contribution, as he poked a
grimy face from the tiny engine room of the big flyer.
“Sling us a line,” called the captain.
Ned made the cast with a stout bit of hemp, and the aircraft was drawn
alongside of the submarine.
“Put ’er there, boys,” commanded Captain Johnson, reaching for Billy’s
outstretched hand; “and there’s Henri, bless you, my lad; give me the
grip; sure this is good for sore eyes.”
Josh did not stop at handshaking, he encircled both boys in his brawny
arms and set their ribs to cracking.
“Well, for all that’s out,” exclaimed the captain, spying Jimmy, who
was just appearing above the hatch, “here’s a whole garden of daisies!
Tip us your fin, Jimmy, and let me tell you that your mother is looking
for you.”
“Why, I thought you had gone for a soldier, you Dover dandy,” put in
Josh, as he playfully saluted Jimmy.
“Here’s another of the flock,” said Billy, pushing Reddy forward for
inspection.
“When I get all of you aboard,” commented the captain, “it will look
like I was trying to outdo Noah. But come a runnin’ and I’ll pack you
all in somewhere, being as there are two lightweights among the four,”
referring to Jimmy and Reddy, “and none of you much heavier than a
pound of butter.”
The crew of the submarine came in for some heartfelt expressions of
gratitude on the part of the boys, whose lives they had saved, and Ned
was privately made banker for some tobacco money for the men.
“This is like old times,” contentedly remarked Billy, as he heard again
the drone of the sea-plane motors.