From being a place which had little existence besides a name on the
map, Grayport had suddenly blossomed out into quite a celebrated
spot. Naturally, Hargraves’s story of the attack on the submarine
experimenters, and the stories of the other men concerning the
interesting tests, excited a great deal of attention. All sorts of
people began to flock to Grayport. Among them came several cranks. All
day long quite a flotilla of small boats maneuvered about the submarine
as she lay at anchor, but nobody was allowed aboard. Even the newspaper
correspondents, after they had been given that first story, were barred.
For two days following the adventures of the night of Mr. Lockyer’s
abduction, the Lockyer lay idle at her moorings. But within her steel
shell, things were anything but idle. Incessant work was going
forward on the engines, getting them to the highest possible state
of efficiency. The reason for this was, at present, a mystery to the
boys, but it lay in the fact that Lieutenant Parry’s report had been so
favorable that the Government had decided to send a special board to
Grayport to investigate the little diving vessel.
So it came about, that on the morning of the third day, when Mr.
Lockyer was completely recovered, and his usual active, nervous self
once more, a trim-looking gunboat steamed into Grayport harbor, and
cast anchor not far from the little vessel. Lieutenant Parry, calling
his crew together, then made an announcement which thrilled them all.
That evening, in all probability, they would start on a long trial spin
with the members of the board as passengers. He impressed them all that
he wished the Lockyer to be put through her best paces. Mr. Lockyer
thanked him with a look for his words. So far, the submarine had done
all that she should, but the crucial test, under keen, impartial eyes,
remained.
Shortly afterward, Lieutenant Parry, in a shore boat, left the Lockyer
for the gunboat--the Louisville. He was on his way to pay his respects
to Captain McGill, the president of the testing board, and his brother
officers. When he returned on board again before noon, it was with the
five officers comprising the party of investigation. All wore their
uniforms and made an imposing array.
The Lockyer, too, with the naval members of her crew in blue uniform,
was decked out like a fighting ship. From her stern fluttered the Stars
and Stripes. From her forward mooring-bits, to the last bolt on her
keelson plate, she had been scoured and polished.
“A smart-looking little craft,” commented Captain McGill, after he had
been introduced to Mr. Lockyer. The inventor colored with pleasure.
“I hope to prove to you, sir, that she is as smart as she looks,” he
rejoined.
The officers now took possession of the cabin, and the boys and the
remainder of the crew were banished to the engineers’ quarters. They
were rather cramped, and Ned was not sorry when it came to the turn of
himself and Herc to take watch on deck.
They were kept busy enough up there, answering questions and fending
off too-inquisitive boats, whose occupants were eager to come on board.
After an inspection of the vessel, the naval party went ashore in the
gunboat’s launch to send some despatches to Washington. This done, they
embarked once more to take council with Captain McGill on board the
Louisville.
This afforded the men left on board more freedom, and they took turns
at coming on deck for a bit of fresh air. Toward the middle of the
afternoon--to the boys’ consternation--a heavy fog came rolling in. It
began to look as if the distance cruise that night might have to be
abandoned. Old Tom gazed at the wreaths of vapor as they came drifting
in from the Sound, wrapping the waters about the Lockyer in a white
obscurity.
“If this don’t lift by sundown it’s good for all night,” he remarked.
“Say,” he went on suddenly, “did I ever tell you lads about the time
I was in a fog in the English Channel on board the old wind-jammer
Wampus?”
The boys shook their heads.
“Well, here goes for the yarn, then,” said old Tom. “The Wampus was
one of them bluff-bowed old craft that they used to build by the mile,
and sell by the foot. I was on board her on a voyage from Brest to
Boston. All went well till we got in the English Channel, when a thick,
pea-soup-kind of a fog shut down on us. It was so bad that you couldn’t
see the forecastle from the stern.
“It was my trick at the wheel that afternoon, and for company I had the
skipper, an old Maine Yankee. He was so plum nervous that all he could
do was to pace up and down and cuss the fog. The English Channel is
crowded with shipping, and every now and then----
“M-o-o-o-o-o-m! would go some fog horn off in the smother.
“All to once, we both give a jump. Right dead ahead of us we heard a
fog horn start up.
“M-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-m!
“I tell you, it gave me the shivers to hear it. ‘Hard over!’ bawls the
skipper, and I spun that wheel round like a squirrel, I tell you. Well,
her head swung off, but it didn’t seem to be no good.
“M-o-o-o-o-o-o-m! come that sound again, and it seemed ter be jest ther
same place as it was before.
“‘Confound them, are they tagging us?’ shouts Captain Wellfleet.
“‘Looks like it, sir,’ says I, swinging her over and going off on the
other tack. But no sooner was we headed the other way than I’m blessed
if that same old horn didn’t start up again.
“M-o-o-o-o-m!
“‘It’s the Flying Dutchman!’ declares the skipper, who was one of the
old-school, hard-shell sailormen, and believed in Adamaster and all
them things. By that time, although I didn’t take much stock in such
yarns as that, I began to think there was something out of the ordinary
in the wind. Well, sir, for half an hour or more we swung to and fro,
and always we’d have that same old ‘M-o-o-o-o-o-m!’ dead ahead of us.
“And so it kept up till it came time to change watches. The fog was
just as thick as ever, and we didn’t see my relief coming from for’ard
till he reached the waist. By this time the skipper was jumping about
from one foot to the other, pretty nearly daffy. And still, every now
and then, we’d hear that ‘M-o-o-o-o-m!’ right off our bow. It was
fairly uncanny, I’m telling you, the way it chased us.
“‘Send the cook aft, and tell him to make me a cup of tea,’ roars the
skipper, as my relief comes up. ‘My nerves is knocked plum galley-west.’
“‘Sorry, sir,’ says the man; ‘the cook is doctoring the cow.’
“‘Doctoring the cow?’ bellows the skipper.
“‘Aye, aye, sir,’ says my mate; ‘she’s ate suthin’ that disagreed with
her an’ she’s got a tummy-ache. Hark!’
“He held up his finger, and we hears that fog horn noise again.
“‘M-o-o-o-o-o-m!’
“‘Is that the horn-swoggled cow?’ roars the skipper, fair beside
himself.
“‘Aye, aye, sir!’ says my mate, touching his cap; ‘she’s bin’ bellering
that way fer an hour or more.’
“‘Great shades of Neptune!’ yells the skipper, ‘and we’ve bin tagging
all over the Channel, trying ter git away from the beller of our own
cow.’
“And that,” concluded old Tom solemnly, “was the worst fog I was ever
in, boys. They do say, too, that bovine made fine corned beef, and they
used the tin cow--condensed milk--for the rest of that ’ere voyage.”
“Say, Tom, do you expect us to believe that?” asked Herc, with a wink
at Ned, after their laughter had subsided.
“Of course,” said the old man-o’-warsman indignantly. “If there’s any
insulting doubt in your mind I’ll tell you the year and date of the
month.”
“Ahoy, Lockyer!” came a hail through the fog at this moment.
“Ahoy!” hailed Ned, “what boat’s that?”
“Lockyer!” came the answer.
Ned knew at once from this, though the fog hid the boat, that it was
Lieutenant Parry and his party returning.
As commander _pro tem_ of the submarine, Lieutenant Parry had
answered to Ned’s hail by giving the boat’s name. This--under Navy
usage--signified that he was the captain. Other commissioned officers
would have hailed: “Aye, aye.” Enlisted men would have replied:
“Halloo!”
The short flight of steel steps, which did duty as an officer’s
gangway, was hastily lowered from the starboard side of the submarine,
and the party received on board in Navy style.
“Doesn’t look much like a cruise to-night, Lockyer, I’m afraid.” Ned,
standing at attention by the gangway, heard Lieutenant Parry remark
this to the inventor as they went below.
But good fortune was to favor the submarine after all. At sundown a
brisk breeze sprung up, before which the fog rapidly melted away. By
dusk the skies were clear, and outside the harbor a sharp wind was
kicking up white-caps in dancing water-rows. It was ideal weather for
cruising, and when, after supper, the order came to up anchor, the
command was obeyed with alacrity.
But smart as the Lockyer had been in hastening to make ready for her
start after the fog had lifted, another boat in the harbor was ahead of
her in getting to sea. This was a largish catboat, which had come in
that morning. Some time before the order came to “up anchor” on their
own craft, the crew of the Lockyer had watched the catboat, on which
were two men, slip from her moorings and, heeling gracefully before the
breeze, run out of the harbor. Soon she was skipping across the Sound,
bobbing about like a dancer in a quadrille. The dying light glowed
goldenly on her big, single sail.
“Those fellows are off for a night’s cruise, too,” commented Herc,
as he watched the white canvas glimmering more and more dimly in the
gathering dusk.
“Guess they’re reaching off for a run to Bridgeport,” rejoined Ned. But
in this surmise he came far--very far--from guessing the real object of
the catboat’s cruise.