“A messenger from where?” gasped the sentry, as Ned, barefooted and
coatless, stood before him with the paper in hand.
“From the deep sea,” responded the Dreadnought Boy, with perfect
gravity. “Will you have the goodness to have this note conveyed to
Lieutenant-Commander Scott?”
“You be blowed!” rejoined the sentry, now over his first alarm, in
which he had conceived Ned to be some sort of sea sprite. “You’re
nothing but a blooming sto’away.”
“Oh no,” Ned assured him with unmoved gravity; “see, here’s the note.
I’d advise you to have it sent forward without delay if you mean to
avoid trouble.”
Something in the boy’s manner impressed the marine, and stepping
forward, he took the note and scrutinized it carefully.
“This beats me,” he muttered. “See here, young fellow, you’d better
come with me. I’ll report this to the officer of the watch.”
Ned marched forward with the sentry in a perfectly docile way.
Presently they came upon the officer of the watch. He gazed at the
sentry and his companion with unmixed amazement.
“Who in blue blazes is this?” he demanded, gazing at Ned.
“Dunno, sir,” was the sentry’s prompt rejoinder. “He says he’s a
messenger from the deep sea, sir. It’s a fact that he did climb over
the starn. I think--begging your pardon, sir--that he’s a bit off in
the head.”
“That will do, my man. Go aft.”
“Not before he’s delivered my note, sir, please,” requested Ned.
“What? This--this boy brought a note with him?” demanded the amazed
officer.
“Yes, sir,” rejoined the sentry; “here it is, sir. It seems all
addressed regular.”
As the officer took it, Ned struck in once more.
“Will you see that the note reaches Lieutenant-Commander Scott at once,
sir?”
“Why, I----” began the puzzled officer; “see here, young man, has this
note anything to do with that whistle that sounded right under our bows
a few minutes ago?”
“I think so, sir,” responded Ned gravely, while the curious watch
clustered about him. The thoroughly mystified officer glanced upward.
He saw and hailed a passing orderly, and gave the note into his charge,
to be conveyed at once to the commander of the Brooklyn.
“See here, young man,” he said blusteringly, this done, “don’t try to
temporize with me--how did you come on board this vessel?”
“I think that note explains that, sir,” responded Ned quietly, but with
adamantine firmness.
His coolness incensed the puzzled officer.
“What the dickens do you mean by your impudence, young man,” he fumed;
“are you aware that this is the United States gunboat Brooklyn?”
“Perfectly, sir. That’s why I boarded her,” rejoined Ned.
“But--but, look here, you can’t impose on me, you know. You’re a
stowaway. That’s what you are. Come, out with the truth now.”
“I never set foot on this craft till five minutes ago, sir,” rejoined
Ned, with perfect truth.
“Nonsense. Either you are insane or a wilful impostor. I warn you, sir,
you are playing a dangerous game. This is a Government vessel, and----”
At this moment the irate officer was interrupted by a voice from the
bridge. Lieutenant-Commander Scott, in a hastily-assumed bath robe,
stood outside his stateroom door.
“What is all this nonsense, Dacre?” he demanded sharply.
“Just what I’m trying to find out, sir,” replied the officer of
the deck. “Sorry to have awakened you, sir, but the affair was so
mystifying that I thought it ought to be brought to your attention.”
“But--wait a moment, and I’ll be down there,” exploded the chagrined
skipper, running down a couple of ladders and reaching the main deck,
where Ned stood surrounded by the watch.
“This note says,” fumed Lieutenant-Commander Scott, “that a submarine
is fast to my stern. Listen:
“‘Submarine Lockyer is fast to your stern. You are technically out of
commission.--Parry, Lieutenant U. S. N.’”
“Why, there is a Lieutenant Parry in the Navy, who is attached to
submarine work, sir,” stammered the officer of the deck, more mystified
than ever. “Of course. He is an old friend of mine. Where is the fellow
who brought this note?”
“Here, sir!” exclaimed Ned, clicking his bare heels together, and
coming to an attitude of attention.
“What is the explanation of this?” demanded the commander of the
Brooklyn. “How dare you have the impudence to forge Lieutenant Parry’s
name? What does all this mean?”
“Perhaps you had better ask Lieutenant Parry, sir,” replied Ned quietly.
“Why--what--how? Where is he?”
“Right under the counter of your ship, sir. Or, at least, I left him
there,” was the staggering rejoinder, delivered in a quiet tone.
“Young man, if you are imposing upon us, this will be a sorry night’s
work for you,” was the ominous response, delivered in a meaning tone,
as followed by the deck officer, with the marine sentry and the rest of
the watch trailing at a respectful distance, Lieutenant-Commander Scott
made his way to the stern.
“Great guns and little fishes!” he exclaimed, as he peered over the
sternrail, “you were right, boy. But--how in the name of time----?”
“Ahoy there, Scott, that you?” came up from the conning-tower of the
submarine, as she rode along in the stern of the gunboat, dancing about
in the wash of the big boat’s propeller like a cork.
“Aye, aye, Parry,” was the rejoinder. “This is a fine joke you’ve
played on me. You’ll make me the laughing stock of every mess and
service club from here to Yokohama.”
“Sorry, old man,” was the cheerful reply,--somehow there didn’t seem
to be much sorrow in the tones,--“but it was in the line of duty, you
know.”
“Line of duty be hanged, Parry. But I’m willing to admit it was a
brilliant idea.”
“Oh, it wasn’t mine. You’ll have to give the credit for it to Bos’un’s
Mate Strong, who, at this minute, is standing beside you.”
“Oh, so you are Strong,” said Lieutenant-Commander Scott, turning to
the lad beside him with keen interest expressed in look and voice.
“I’ve heard of you before, and your shipmate Taylor. The Dreadnought
Boys, they call you, don’t they? Well, young man, I have to admit that
you have caught us napping. But such jokes are dangerous things to
play.”
“Especially if the joke had taken place in time of war,” chuckled
Lieutenant Parry. “Come, come, Scott, don’t be grouchy just because
you have been fairly torpedoed. If there is any blame, it is attached
to me, but when Strong suggested the prank, I could not help but think
that if we could make fast to you without your knowing it, that such a
feat would go pretty far toward proving the value and efficiency of
the Lockyer submarine in war-time.”
Somewhat mollified, Lieutenant-Commander Scott replied in kind and,
after some more talk, chiefly of a jesting character, Ned dropped over
the stern, and the lines which held the Lockyer fast to the Brooklyn
were cast off.
“I wouldn’t care to be in that sentry’s place,” laughed Lieutenant
Parry, as the bright mast-light of the Brooklyn grew dim in the
distance. “Scott always was a stickler for discipline, even at
Annapolis, and he has always maintained that no ship he was in command
of would ever be surprised by anything afloat. So you see, Strong, that
you have been responsible for what is bound to become the biggest naval
joke of a decade.”
“And now,” struck in Mr. Lockyer, “I think that it would be a good idea
to head back to our home port and let all hands indulge in a good, long
sleep. That is,” he added, “if no more adventures happen to us on this
eventful night.”
The Lockyer, however, was not destined to have any more stirring
adventures for the present, and two hours later she dropped anchor
off the boatyard, with a highly successful trial trip to her credit.
Channing Lockyer’s dreams that night were rosier than they had been for
many a moon. And in and out of the fabric of them floated a face, the
face of the girl who had broken the bottle over the bows of the gallant
little diving boat--the daughter of the white-whiskered apostle of
universal peace.
Possibly, however, if the occupants of the submarine had possessed
the gift of what the Scotch call “back sight,” they might not have
slumbered so peacefully. Had they had this faculty, they would have
been able to take in the details of a scene that occurred at their
moorings a short time after they had slipped them for the exciting test
voyage.
Hardly had the Lockyer’s nose poked itself outside the harbor before a
long, narrow, low-lying motor-boat glided across the waters. On board
her were two men. One of them held a pair of powerful night glasses
in his hand. Raising them, as the craft neared the spot in which the
submarine had been moored, he scrutinized the surroundings carefully.
An exclamation of disappointment left his lips as he perceived that
there was no sign of the submarine at her anchorage.
“She’s gone!” he exclaimed angrily. “I thought you said, Anderson, that
she was anchored right off here after the launching?”
“And so she was,” rejoined the late foreman of the Lockyer boatyard;
“didn’t I see her with my own eyes? I was in among the crowd, and
elbowed right and left, it’s true, but still I know what I’m about, Tom
Gradbarr. I guess that Lockyer has stolen a march on us and sneaked out
to sea on a trial trip.”
“That’s the way it looks,” was the rejoinder. “Well, perhaps it’s all
for the best. They would have kept a pretty strict watch to-night,
anyhow. It’s bound to be some time before the navy finally accepts
her. I know the way they do things at Washington. We are bound to find
another chance to carry out orders.”
“That being the case, let’s get back to the island,” suggested
Anderson, who, had it been light, would have been seen to be as pale as
ashes. Something like a sigh of relief had, in fact, escaped his lips
when he saw that the Lockyer was not at her expected moorings as they
had thought.
“Yes. I guess we had better turn back,” said the other. He gave the
“automobile control” wheel, by which the motor craft was guided, a
twist, and she spun round like a long, lithe snake. “We’ve got to get
back and put Ferriss and Camberly ashore, anyhow.”
“They’ll be mad as hornets when they hear that we’ve done nothing,”
came from Anderson, as the boat gathered way.
“Can’t be helped,” was the gruff rejoinder. “Jobs like the one they’ve
set us can’t be done in the wink of an eye.”
“That’s right,” replied Anderson; “but waiting to get even is a
tiresome job.”
“Yes, but vengeance is all the sweeter for being bottled a while,”
chuckled Tom Gradbarr, as he sent the boat spinning through the water
in the direction from which she had come. This lay up a channel,
stretching east and west inside the narrow sand spit, which separated
the calm waters of Grayport Harbor from the open Sound.
The inlet reached for several miles up the coast, terminating in a
shallow bay dotted with small, barren islands. In the summer there was
a bungalow colony here, but at this time of year it was deserted. As
they reached the islands and began threading their way among them, a
blue light suddenly was seen waving through the darkness.
“There’s Ferriss now,” exclaimed Gradbarr, setting his course for the
signal. “I’ll bet he’s wondering if we have a passenger on board.”