"IF HE'S A MAN, HE'LL STAND UP."
The passage of Ned and Herc from the foredeck in quest of their
ditty-boxes had not gone unnoted by two men lounging at ease under the
shadow of the great 13-inch guns projecting from the forward turret.
The big circular steel structure acted as a wind-break, and the pair
lay here smoking and talking in low tones.
"I'd give fifty dollars to know Ned Strong's secret," observed one
of them, flicking the ashes from a cigar upon the spotless decks, a
deliberate infraction of the ship's laws. Selden Merritt was one of the
few "before the mast" men on board who smoked cigars. A pipe and a plug
of black, rank tobacco usually does for your jackie, but Merritt was an
exception to the rule.
"It would be worth it," agreed his companion, a heavily-set chap of
about nineteen. His cap was off, and his black, bristly hair, cut
pompadour, stood straight up from his rather low forehead.
Merritt was a man of about twenty-four, blonde, thin and "race-horsey"
in build. He had the reputation of having been a college man and
champion runner, until, losing prestige and reputation through
dissipation, he had been forced to enlist. It had proved the best thing
he ever did. Four years in the navy had given him a pink, clear skin, a
bright eye and an erect carriage. But it had not taken a furtive sneer
out of his expression, nor altered his disposition, which was mean and
crafty. His bearing, however, was rather distinguished, with a certain
swagger, and his talk showed that he was an educated man.
"Did you have much to do with them on their first cruise?" inquired
Merritt's companion, Ray Chance.
"No, they were both enlisted men. But they managed to give a black
eye, in a figurative way, to a good friend of mine."
"You mean Bill Kennell?"
"Yes. I hear that he's been pardoned from prison--political pull. But
that doesn't alter the fact that they accomplished his downfall."
"Well, I never liked either of them. I heard about them by reputation
before I came to the _Manhattan_ from the _Dixie_. I like them still
less from what I've seen of them on board here. I think this fellow
Strong is a big faker."
"Yes. I'm sick and disgusted with him and the airs he gives himself.
His dear chum and inseparable is almost as bad. I'd like to take a fall
out of both of them."
"You'll get your chance to-morrow in the squadron's games. You can beat
Ned Strong running the best day he ever stepped on a track."
"I ought to be able to, and I mean to do it, too. I don't like bluffs,
and this chap Strong is a false alarm if ever there was one."
"Say, you fellows," suddenly interpolated a voice, "if you think
Strong is such a bluff, why don't you tell him so?"
The interruption came from a short, stocky, little blue-jacket,
lounging nearby. He had been reading a book on gunnery, but the raised
voices of the Dreadnought Boy's detractors had aroused his attention.
His blue eyes twinkled rather humorously, as he eyed the agile,
long-limbed Merritt and his sallow, dark-haired companion.
"Hullo, Benjamin Franklin; were you rubbering on our conversation?"
said Merritt, assuming an indignant expression.
"Ben Franklin" was the nickname given to the studious tar whose right
name was Stephen Wynn.
"It didn't take any 'rubbering,' as you call it, to overhear you," said
Wynn quietly; "if you take my advice, when you want to say mean things
about Ned Strong or his chum, you'll lower your voice aboard this ship.
They've got quite a few friends."
"Just the same," maintained Merritt, "the chap isn't all he sets up to
be. He's got some secret, like all such fellows."
"I guess his secret is hard work and attention to duty," said Wynn
rather shortly, returning to his reading.
"You don't seriously think that there is any chance of Strong's giving
you a tussle for the first place?" asked Ray Chance.
"Frankly, I don't. But there is always a possibility of mistaking one's
man. I'm wise enough to know that."
"But you have arranged in some way to make success certain?"
Merritt gave Chance a quizzical look.
"You know me," he said, with a knowing wink, "Chalmers of the old
_Luzzy_ (sailor slang for the _Louisiana_) is an old friend of mine. He
dislikes Strong as much as I do. He's the next best man in the race. If
things go wrong, we've got a little system arranged to pocket friend
Strong. But how about you? You are pitted against Taylor in the pole
vault, aren't you?"
"Yes, and I ain't worrying, you bet."
Merritt still retained a good choice of diction, a relic of his college
days, but Chance's talk was was more uncouth and less polished.
"Good! I don't mind telling you I've got some money out on myself.
Enough to swamp a good deal of my pay, in fact. I've got to win."
"About the same thing here," grinned Chance; "if I lose, it's all up
with me financially. I'm in pretty deep."
"Tell you what," said Merritt suddenly, "I hear that there will be
extra pay and bonuses attaching to this aero duty. Let's send in
applications, and then if we get trimmed in the races and jumps we will
have a chance to get some extra coin."
"That's a good idea," agreed Chance. But as they started to carry out
their intention, the same bugle calls that had hastened the steps of
Ned and Herc recalled them to duty.
Stephen Wynn arose with a sigh, and thrust his book inside his loose
blouse. "Ben Franklin" disliked to leave his studies for duty. But
he was a smart sailor, and formed one of Ned's gun crew. Merritt and
Chance were on one of the after turrets.
"Those fellows took care to sink their voices after they found out I'd
overheard them," said Wynn to himself, as he fell in with the rest of
the blue-jackets. "I'll bet that they were plotting some mischief to
Strong and Taylor. At any rate, I'll put them on their guard at the
first opportunity I get."
At three-thirty, or seven bells, the gun drills and calisthenic
exercises were over, and a brief space of leisure ensued. Wynn,
according to his determination, sought out Ned and Herc. He lost no
time in communicating his suspicions to them. But, somewhat to his
astonishment, neither of the lads seemed much impressed.
"A fellow who plots and backbites in dark corners is not one to be
scared of," said Ned. "But just the same, Ben Franklin, I'm obliged to
you. I guess we'll keep our eyes on our two friends, eh, Herc?"
"Not worth bothering with," observed Herc, "as the car conductor said
when the fellow offered him a plugged dime. If they can win fair and
square, we won't grudge it to them."
"Well, I've warned you," said "Ben Franklin." "By the way, what makes
those fellows so sore at you?"
"Oh, Merritt, so I've heard, was a friend of Bill Kennell. He was
the fellow, you know, who kidnapped Mr. Varian in Cuba. He naturally
dislikes us for the part we played in apprehending Kennell. As for
Chance, he was in my gun crew up to a few weeks ago. I had to have him
up 'at the stick' for insubordination once or twice, and I guess it's
stuck in his craw."
"If it hadn't been for you, Ned, he'd have gone to the brig," put in
Herc.
"Oh, well, I thought that a taste of the brig would be too severe,"
said Ned. "I hoped a good wigging by the 'old man' (the captain) would
be sufficient, but it wasn't. Then Chance sulked and played sick. He
took in the doctor for a while, but it didn't last. He was punished and
restored to duty with an after gun crew following that."
"And blames you for all his troubles," said Herc indignantly, "and I
guess I come in for a share of his dislike."
"Oh, life's too short to worry about Merritt and Chance," said Ned,
breaking off the conversation. "It looks as if we'd have a glorious
day to-morrow," he went on, adroitly turning the topic of talk.
The ruse succeeded. The three shipmates fell to discussing the
coming games. Others joined them, and the time passed rapidly till
five-thirty,--three bells--when all hands were piped to supper, a plain
but substantial meal. For the benefit of our non-seafaring reader,
we will tell him that on this particular night it consisted of:--hot
roast-beef hash, cold boiled ham, canned peaches, bread, butter and tea
or coffee. Thus, it will be seen that Uncle Sam does not starve his
blue-jackets.
Supper was in full swing when Ned, who was at the head of the table
which seated his "mess," was the recipient of a surprising testimonial.
It came in the shape of a hot baked potato, flung with accuracy and
speed. It struck the Dreadnought Boy in the eye, and burst, spreading
its pasty contents over his features. Herc, who sat by Ned, leaped to
his feet in a flash, while Ned hastily pawed the mass out of his eyes.
"I saw who threw that," cried Herc, his face aflame, the freckles
looming up like spots on the sun; "if he's a man, he'll stand up."
A stir ran through the forecastle. Herc's finger pointed to a distant
table and rested on the form of Merritt. Chance sat by him. Both had
been laughing an instant before, but as Merritt saw that he had been
found out his face assumed a rather sickly grin.
"Sit down, Herc," ordered Ned rather sternly, "I'll attend to this. Am
I to understand that you threw that potato?" he demanded, fixing his
gaze straight on Merritt's face.
The other's eyes sank. He looked disturbed and a bit scared. Ned's
voice had held no uncertain ring.
"It--it was just a joke," he said. "You don't need to get huffy about
it."
"Rather a strenuous joke, wasn't it?" asked Ned in a firm, calm
voice, while the eyes of every man in the place were fixed on him in
breathless attention.
"I--I didn't mean to hit you," went on Merritt. "I just wanted to give
you a jump. It was just a joke--that's all."
"That being the case," resumed Ned, "I shall have to ask you to remove
the consequences of your _joke_."
So saying, he deliberately threw the remains of the potato on the deck.
"Now, come here and pick that up and carry it back," he said, with a
flash in his eyes. "We'll carry this joke through to its conclusion."
Merritt turned pale and hesitated. Then he caught Ned's eye. A certain
glint in it seemed to galvanize him into action. Amid a roar of
laughter from the entire assemblage, Merritt, red and white by turns,
crossed to Ned's table and carefully picked up every scrap of the
d├ębris.
"What are you laughing at?" he glared at Herc, as he made his way back
to his own place.
"At your joke," sputtered Herc, affecting a spasm of amusement. "Ho!
ho! ho! That's one of the best jokes I've ever seen."
"It is, is it?" glowered Merritt.
"Yes, but it isn't as big a joke as it would have been if you hadn't
done as Ned told you. Ho! ho! ho! It isn't every puppy that will fetch
and carry at the first lesson."
The shout of laughter was taken up by the rest of the blue-jackets.
Amid this storm of merriment, Merritt made his way to his seat. He
reached it just as the officer of the deck entered.
"Merritt, what are you out of your place for?" demanded this
dignitary, who was noted as a strict disciplinarian.
"I--I dropped a potato, sir, and was picking it up," stammered Merritt,
trembling with rage and mortification.