BREAKING TWO ROOKIES.
A fresh breeze, tossing up the foamy white caps; fleecy clouds,
scurrying by overhead; and, on the sparkling sea, spread in a long
formidable line, the North Atlantic squadron, steaming "in column,"
bound for the battle practice at Guantanamo. Between each of the huge
battle bulldogs, glistening wetly with the tossed-up spray, a perfect
distance was maintained--as accurately as if the space between each
ship in the long line were fixed permanently; yet the squadron was
reeling off twenty knots an hour on its way to tropic waters.
On the fore-deck of the _Manhattan_, which, leviathan as she was,
pitched heavily in the huge Atlantic swells, stood the two Dreadnought
Boys; but a big change was manifest in the ruddy-headed Herc's smiling
features, since he sat down to supper the night before the squadron
sailed.
Ned regarded his chum with a smile at the other's woe-begone look.
"Cheer up, Herc," he said. "It will soon be over, you know.
Sea-sickness does not last long."
"A good thing it doesn't," groaned the unfortunate Herc, "or I'd be
finished with earthly woes by this time. O-oh-oh-oh!"
The exclamation was forced from Ned's cousin as the _Manhattan_ gave an
extra heavy pitch which sent the salt foam flying in a wet cloud over
the port-bow.
It was the second morning following the fleet's departure from New
York. The night before, after a day of agony, poor Herc had been
hoisted into his hammock by three sailors, and now, in the early dawn,
he was undergoing once more all the torments of the day previous. Ned,
on the contrary, seemed unaffected by the motion of the ship in the
heavy sea-way, and had escaped the toll old Neptune demands from most
neophytes.
"Here, you boys," bluffly snapped a boatswain's mate, approaching the
boys; "what are you doing here?" It was not the same petty officer who
had shown them about the ship.
"Beg pardon, sir," said Ned, respectfully saluting, "but we haven't
received any assignments yet."
"Well, lay hold of a swab and get to work."
"A swab, sir?"
"It sounds what I feel like," groaned Herc.
"Yes, a deck-mop, if you like that term better. No idlers allowed here."
"My friend here, is pretty sea-sick, sir," ventured Ned respectfully.
"Never mind; a little work will do him good--work and a good
breakfast----"
"Breakfast oh-o-o-oh!" from the luckless Herc.
"Come, hammocks have been piped down for five minutes. Have you stowed
yours?" demanded the boatswain's mate sharply.
"Yes, sir," replied Ned, who had performed this office both for himself
and for his friend.
"Well, you will turn to with the first deck division and scrub decks."
"Very well, sir," said Ned, starting forward to where he saw a number
of jackies, armed with swabs, preparing to begin the first daily task
on a man-o'-war. Scrubbing and painting and cleaning brasswork are a
Jackie's chief tasks at sea.
"But hold on a minute--your boots."
The boatswain's mate glared downward disapprovingly.
"Have I lost those, too?" moaned Herc.
"Take off your boots, at once. Footgear is not allowed while scrubbing
decks."
"Very well, sir. Come, Herc, we must go forward."
Followed by Herc, Ned made his way to the fore superstructure, where
swabs were being served out. After a little inquiry, he found his
"station," and guided the half-dazed Herc into his place in the
scrubbing line. Soon they were at work on one of those tasks which may
seem menial, but which every boy who enters Uncle Sam's navy must learn
to do without complaint.
"I didn't leave home to scrub floors," muttered Herc indignantly,
his disgust getting even the better of his sea-sickness; "is this a
sailor's chore?"
"Never mind, Herc; look at it from this angle--in scrubbing decks you
are helping to keep your five-million-dollar home clean."
"I'd give five million dollars to be ashore," groaned Herc, a fresh
paroxysm sweeping over him.
Suddenly the sharp cry of "Attention!" rang along the decks.
The scrubbing squads straightened up stiffly, and came to the position
of salute.
It was the captain, making an early tour of inspection with the
executive officer of the ship, Lieutenant-Commander Scott. Behind
him came his orderly and a messenger. Altogether, it was quite an
impressive little parade.
Ned thought that the captain, whom he had last seen quelling the onrush
of the crazed stokers, glanced at him with a flash of recognition. He
knew enough, however, not to betray by the flicker of an eyelash that
he had ever seen his commander before.
As for Herc, he was fortunately, perhaps, past paying attention to
anything.
"Tell the men to carry on," Ned heard the captain say to the
boatswain's mate in charge of his scrubbing squad, as the officers
passed by.
"Carry on," thought Ned; "what on earth is that?"
"Come; carry on!" said boatswain's mate sharply to Ned as the boy still
stood at attention, having received no order to resume work.
Ned looked at him inquiringly, and the man saw the lad was puzzled.
"Carry on. Go on with your work," he said, and Ned at once understood
the hitherto mysterious order.
Breakfast followed the swabbing-down work, and Herc, who felt somewhat
revived, managed to swallow a few mouthfuls. Not enough, however,
to completely restore him, and a shipmate, seeing his despondent
condition, advised him to visit Pills.
"What is that?" asked the astonished boy.
"It isn't a 'what,' it's a 'he'," explained the man; "Pills is the
doctor."
"Well, if there's a doctor on board, I certainly want to see him,"
agreed Herc; and, at seven-thirty, together with several other men,
suffering from real or imaginary ills, he sought out the ship's doctor,
who gave him some remedies, which soon made the boy feel all right.
In fact, an hour later Herc and Ned found themselves consigned to a
painting squad, working, side by side, on the big forward turret which
housed the twelve-inch guns.
Beside them was another blue-jacket and old Tom, their acquaintance of
their first day of naval life.
Ned felt a thrill, as, in his bosn's chair, he dangled on the side of
the turret close to the glistening barrels of the huge guns, which
could hurl a ponderous weight of metal, an 870-pound projectile, almost
ten miles. He wondered if he would ever attain his present ambition,
which was to serve on the crew in the big forward turret, the one he
was then engaged in painting a dull-slate color.
Conversation is allowed among blue-jackets at work if they are discreet
enough not to make their tones too loud, and relapse into silence when
a petty or a commissioned officer happens along. Thus Ned and the
convalescent Herc found time to ask many questions concerning the ship.
Naturally, the talk drifted, as they worked, to the turret on which
they were toiling.
"If I tell you boys a secret can you keep it--teetotal abstinence?"
asked old Tom suddenly.
"You had better not confide in us, if you don't think so," rejoined Ned
somewhat sharply.
"Oh, no harm meant," hastily put in Tom; "and at that, it isn't so much
of a secret. It's been hinted at in the papers, and maybe you may have
heard of it. Have you?"
"Why, how can we tell unless we know what it is?" questioned Ned, with
a laugh.
"Well," confided old Tom seriously, and lowering his voice--though by
this time the third man on their side of the turret was painting at
some distance from them--"well, inside this here turret is one of the
new Varian guns. They are the invention of Henry Varian, of Boston----"
"The inventor of that new explosive?" breathed Ned.
"Exactly; Chaosite, they call it. Well, this here gun is specially
built to handle this explosive, but it's never been tried yet;
and--here's the secret--Varian himself is to join us in Cuba and
direct the firing tests of it. While the papers have got hold of the
fact that we have the gun on board, none of them know that it is to be
tested on this battle practice, or that Varian himself is to meet us at
Guantanamo."
"How do you come to know all this?" asked Ned.
"Why, I'm the stroke-oar of the captain's boat--when he uses it--which
isn't often, nowadays," lamented old Tom, who hadn't much use for
"steamers" and gasoline launches. "Well, when we was at Key West, I
rowed him ashore--helped to, that is--and I overheard him talking to
this fellow Varian himself about the gun. I wasn't eavesdropping, you
understand; just overheard."
"That's mighty interesting," mused Ned; "of course, I have read of
the government's experiments with Chaosite. It is supposed to be, I
believe, the most powerful of all explosives yet discovered. It's great
to think that we are on board the first ship to try it under actual
battle conditions."
"I wish we could get on the crew of that gun," put in Herc. "I'd like
mighty well to see just how that Chewusite acts when it's touched
off. Regular Fourth of July, I guess. Pop-boom-fizz! Up in the
air!--stars!--bang--down comes the stick!"
As Herc spoke, in his newly recovered vitality, he swung his pot of
slate-colored paint about, to illustrate his meaning. As ill-luck would
have it, the wire handle was not oversecurely fastened, and off flew
the receptacle of the pigment with which the turret was being covered.
"Oh, crickey! Now I've done it!" groaned Herc, as he felt the bucket
slip from the handle and go hurtling down.
The next moment Ned echoed his chum's exclamation of dismay, as he saw
what had occurred.
To make matters worse, at that very moment the redoubtable Kennell was
passing beneath the turret, on his way aft to clean some brasswork, and
had turned his face upward, preparatory to flinging some jeering remark
at the two Dreadnought Boys.
The contents of the unlucky pot of paint fell full on his sneering
features, blotting them out in a sticky cloud of gray pigment!