“I was half-way up the ladder when she dived,” he gasped. “She took me

down with her and something caught my leg. I think I hurt it a little

getting loose.” They had called to the other boat that the lieutenant

was safe, and now the ensign shouted to them to pull across.

“You stay here, sir,” he said, “and I’ll change into the starboard

boat. We’d better lay our course for the Scillies, I presume.”

“Certainly. St. Martin is the nearest. About thirty-four miles, I’d

say. Make it southeast by south, three quarters south. If this breeze

holds we should make land by daylight.”

“Very good, sir. You’d better do what you can for your leg, hadn’t you?”

“It can wait, thanks. It’s nothing of importance. We’ll keep together

if possible, I think.”

The ensign made his transfer to the stern sheets of the starboard boat,

masts were stepped and the lug sails took the breeze and the course was

set for the nearest of the Scilly Islands. In the port boat Lieutenant

Cowan himself took the tiller. There was enough breeze to send the

little boat along at a good four or five miles an hour, and so there

was no need of using the oars. Spray flew in pretty constantly over the

low gunwales and soon they were all shivering, as the water penetrated

their scanty clothing. The wind came from the west, or very near it,

and it was possible to hold her to her course fairly well. The dim

light of the other boat gradually fell away to starboard and finally

vanished, suggesting that she was not making quite as good headway. In

spite of chattering teeth the occupants were cheerful. They all felt

sorry over the loss of the _944_, for they had become attached to her,

and the deaths of their three shipmates weighed on their minds, but

they had had a miraculous escape from a very great danger, and that

fact was enough to counteract on depression. The lieutenant was silent

most of the time, doubtless dejected by the loss of his boat, and the

men respected his feelings. But gradually a low tone of conversation

succeeded the whispering, and at last, just as the first streaks of day

showed in the east, some irrepressible started to whistle softly in the

bow and soon they were all humming and then singing the song.

“Oh, say, can you see by the dawn’s early light

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming,

Whose broad stripes and bright stars thro’ the perilous fight,

O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming.

And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

Gave proof thro’ the night that our flag was still there.

Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?”

Even the lieutenant, his face looking grave and white in the gray

half-darkness, joined in, although the lieutenant’s singing voice

was nothing to boast of. They sang the anthem through to the last

word――something that few, if any, of them would have been able to do

six months before, gaining new fervor as they went on. As one clear

boyish voice started the first note of the final stanza, a flush of

pink mingled with the dull gray of the eastern sky and tinged it with

the soft colors of a dove’s breast, and day lay just below the watery

horizon.

“Oh, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand

Between their loved home and wild war’s desolation;

Blest with vict’ry and peace, may the heaven-rescued land

Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.

Then conquer we must when our cause it is just,

And this be our motto: ‘In God is Our Trust!’

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave

O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!”

As the last lingering note died on the air Kennedy raised a hand and

pointed eastward.

“That looks like smoke, sir, doesn’t it?” he asked.

CHAPTER VII

ON THE MINE SWEEPER

An hour later the occupants of the port life-boat were safe aboard

the British steam trawler _Good Venture_. Scalding hot tea had driven

the cold from their bodies, and each had been provided with clothing

of some sort from the slop-chest of the little ship. None of them had

saved anything from the _944_ save the apparel they had had on at the

time, except that the lieutenant had managed to squirm into a pair

of dress trousers and bring off the ship’s papers and the lead-bound

book that held the secret code. Briggs remarked philosophically that

it was a lucky thing pay day was so far past that few of them had

possessed much money to lose! The _Good Venture_ was a Grimsby boat,

a stout-hulled, high-bowed little steamer, once painted gray but now

showing as much red-brown rust as paint. She had two masts and a tall,

slim funnel, forward of which was a high wheelhouse. She carried a mere

handful of men――Grimsby fishermen all before the war, and for some

months after it, too, and now members of the Trawlers’ Naval Reserve.

The master, a square giant of a man with a leather-hued face encircled

by black whiskers, held the official title of skipper.

“I can’t land you, sir,” he informed the lieutenant, “afore the day

after to-morrow, for I’m on duty; but if there’s the chance I’ll put

you aboard a boat bound for port. There’s room for all and plenty to

eat, and if there’s aught we can do for you ’twill be done with a will.”

The _Good Venture_ had a rendezvous with a sister trawler further west,

and search for the _944’s_ starboard life-boat was impossible. It

seemed that she must be in sight, and yet, as the day broadened, there

was no sign of her, and the _Good Venture_, which had steamed several

miles from her course to pick up the lieutenant’s boat, swung back

to her path of duty. It was generally agreed that the other boat had

probably held closer to the wind and so got farther south, and that, in

any case, she was in no danger and would, if not picked up beforehand,

make one of the Scilly Islands without difficulty. It was, however,

many months before Dave saw any of the starboard boat’s crew again,

although he learned a few days later of their safe arrival at Trescos.

The _Good Venture_, it appeared, was a mine sweeper, one of the

Plymouth fleet, and had been across to Brest and was now rejoining her

sister ship, the _Arabella_. The lieutenant was taken in charge by the

skipper and the men were bunked forward in the commodious quarters.

The _Good Venture_ seemed to be something of a family affair, for the

first mate was the skipper’s brother and two of the crew were cousins,

while a third, a yellow-haired boy of surely no more than seventeen,

was the skipper’s nephew. It was he, a shy, slow-spoken lad, who became

Dave’s guide over the ship after all hands had partaken of a generous

breakfast.

Pete and The Pickle went to sleep, as did most of the others, but Dave

never felt more wide awake in his life as he climbed out on deck at

the heels of the Grimsby lad. At first Dave had some difficulty in

understanding the boy’s speech, as much because of the unfamiliar words

used, as because of his Lincolnshire pronunciation. But by the time

they had visited engine room and wheel house and seen what was to be

seen and had come to rest beside the big winch, which wound and unwound

the steel cable used for sweeping, that slight difficulty had passed.

Tom Garrity had the bluest of blue eyes and the yellowest of yellow

hair, and, with his faded red jersey, made a colorful picture as he

leaned against the winch and answered Dave’s questions.

“’Tain’t our place to do fighting,” he replied, “but there’s that gun

handy-like and we’ve used it two, three times, an’ once we got a ’Un

with it, too. That was in March o’ this year. We was sweeping with the

_Belle o’ Headon_ off Wight at the time. Admiralty telled of a new nest

o’ eggs just laid thereabouts and us and the _Belle_ set out one fine

blowy day to pull them up. There was a bit o’ sea running an’ it was

fair wet work, but we gets the gear out an’ starts along, the pair o’

us, an’ works for it might be three, four hours without getting a tug

on the cable. It was a gray, misty day, an’ now and then it drizzles

a bit an’ you can’t see far into it. But of a sudden we gets the

_Belle’s_ ’ooter, three times, which is the signal meaning ‘Submarine!’

The skipper couldn’t see nothing, though, and no more could us, but

the _Belle_ signals haul in and we hauls, an’ right in the middle off

it pops a sub, not a cable-length off to port. All black and shiny-wet

she was, a drippin’ water, and ’er ’atch opens and out pops a officer,

just like one o’ this ’ere ugly Jack-in-the-Boxes.

“’E didn’t carry no gun; a lot of ’em didn’t those days: ’twas the

torpedoes as done the business for ’em. ‘Out o’ it,’ says the blighter.

‘Stop your engines and get in your boats afore I puts a torpedo into

you.’ We was caught, do you see, with the cable ’alf in and no chance

to run for it if we’d wanted to. The _Belle_ couldn’t do nothing

because we was between her and the ’Un. So the skipper ’e sings out to

swing the boat over, and then ’e whispers to ’Erbert, that’s the mate,

do you see, and ’Erbert ’e walks aroun t’other side o’ the ’ouse an’

beckons to the _Belle_ to ease up on the cable. Then ’e tells Will, in

the engine room, to put ’er ahead full steam, an’ so ’twas done. The

skipper ’e makes a jump for the wheel an’ he slings ’er over an’ we

comes around like a bloomin’ tee-totum an’ makes for the ’Un. ’E sees

what we was up to an’ he yells a lot an’ ’e gets out o’ the way by a

matter o’ inches an’ we goes slappin’ past ’is stern. But ’e wasn’t

considerin’ o’ that cable, an’ it comes taut, do you see, an’ whangs

up against the sub abaft the conning tower. The officer ’e ducks just

in the nick o’ time, an’ it slips over an’ takes the after periscope

off short like a match stick an’ catches against the forward one. The

skipper ’e laughs like ’e was ’aving a fit, an’ ’e couldn’t ’ardly slip

the shell in the gun, but ’e did it, an’ ’Erbert ’e sights it an’ away

she blazes.”

He pointed to the rail further aft. “There’s where she went,” he

continued. “’Erbert had to point ’er so low she took six feet o’ the

rail with ’er, but she done him in all right. Square into the ’ull she

goes, right abaft the tower, an’ the noise was fair deafening. An’ the

’Un opens up till you could see ’er insides an’ turns over a bit an’

goes straight down like a lump o’ lead.”

“Golly!” exclaimed Dave. “And then what?”

Tom Garrity viewed him in faint surprise. “Then we went on sweeping,”

he answered.

The _Good Venture_ found her consort at five bells, stood close aboard

and tossed a line across. The _Arabella_ was slightly smaller than the

_Good Venture_, but in other respects might have been built in the same

yard and from the same model. This, however, was not the case, since

the _Arabella_ hailed from Lowestoft in time of peace. The winches

rattled and the long wire cable splashed into the water. The two boats

veered apart, the “kites,” which are weighted timber frames to hold

the cable at proper depth, were cast over, and all was ready for the

day’s work. Abreast, keeping their relative positions as though they

had never known another mission in life, the trawlers steamed slowly

northward, between them some sixty fathoms of tough steel wire cable

dragging below the choppy surface. At the bow two men watched intently,

for it is poor policy to strike a mine, and at the winch were two more

hands, ready to wind or unwind, as necessity required, and able to tell

by reason of long months of experience when the cable made a “catch,”

much as a fisherman knows when a fish tugs ever so gently at his line.

Many miles northward steamed the two boats, then turned precisely and

came back on a parallel course. And so it went all that day and never a

mine was caught in the sweep.

The men from the _944_ watched interestedly and, it must be confessed,

a trifle uneasily. A sweeper must walk straight through a mine field,

trusting to luck to get the “eggs” on the cable and not to bump them

with her hull. The lookouts can seldom see a mine more than a very

few feet under the surface, and then only when the surface is fairly

“glassy,” and so there must be a special providence to watch over the

fortunes of the trawler fleet. Mine sweeping has been said to be the

riskiest work of the war, on land or sea, and the long honor roll of

men who have perished while engaged in it bears out the contention.

Ship after ship has gone down with not one survivor to tell the story

of the sacrifice.

“Why, it’s like this,” said the skipper in reply to a question from

Kennedy, “if we misses ’em, we goes on. If we ’its ’em, we goes down.”

A fine, calm philosophy, but not especially reassuring to the _Good

Venture’s_ uninvited guests.

When darkness came the trawlers anchored within sight of the Irish

coast, doused their lights and waited for morning and another day’s

duty. In the fo’c’sle, an unusually large one, the crew of the _Good

Venture_ and the sailors from the _944_ fraternized and swapped yarns

until six bells. Then, to the lazy rolling of the creaking steamer,

they dropped to sleep and slept hard until, long before daylight, they

were routed out for breakfast.

The next day’s work was more eventful. Shortly after sun-up there was

a cry from the winch man and the two steamers slowed down and the big

cable was slowly wound in, bringing to the surface not one but two

gray-green objects. Caught by the cable against their anchor wires they

bobbed about within a few feet of each other midway between the two

trawlers and only the fact that one had been snagged further up on its

wire kept them from bumping socially together.

On the deck of the _Arabella_ a tall, thin man stepped to the rail and

leveled a rifle. He was extremely deliberate and unexcited, it seemed.

On the _Good Venture_ the visitors watched from places of safety. The

marksman’s first shot spat against the nearer mine but failed to strike

a horn. The next shot, however, was immediately followed by a roaring

explosion and a sudden churning of the water. Spray dashed high in the

pale sunlight and when it fell neither mine was visible. The _Good

Venture’s_ skipper waved commendation, the cable was run out once more

and side by side the two steamers went on. Twice again that forenoon

the rifle barked from the _Arabella_, but each time only a solitary

mine was on view. By noon the sailors from the _944_ had lost much of

their uneasiness and had given up haunting the rail and straining their

eyes over the side. Familiarity had bred contempt, or, if not contempt,

a philosophy akin to the skipper’s. If they ’it, they ’it, and that

was all there was to it.

Dave, Pete, and The Pickle lost interest in mine sweeping after chow

and found a sheltered place amidships and talked. They speculated on

what was to happen to them when they reached Queenstown, if they ever

did. Thus far not so much as a fishing smack had approached near enough

to be hailed and it looked very much as if they would have to remain on

the _Good Venture_ until she returned to Plymouth the next evening.

“Of course,” said Pete, “they’ll give the Old Man another command right

away; leastways, as soon as they have one for him; but what’s to become

o’ us? ’Tain’t likely we’ll be let lay around with nothin’ to do, is

it?”

They agreed that it wasn’t, and Dave said: “I hope we can keep

together, we three, but I don’t suppose we can.”

“Not a hope,” agreed Pete, “not a hope. Say, I wish they’d put me

on a destroyer. That’s the life! Somethin’ doin’ all the time, Kid!

Rampin’ an’ rarin’, that’s them! Skyhootin’ around all over the shop!

A feller’s got some chance to be a hero an’ get his stripes on one o’

them.”

“I was hoping for destroyer duty too,” said Dill. “But they tell me

they take only service men. No ‘rubber socks’ need apply.”

“Don’t you believe it,” Pete denied. “That was the rule, but they take

anything they can get now. Have to. There ain’t enough real ‘gobs’ to

man ’em all. Why, they’re even takin’ Reserves!” And he winked at Dave.

“They need a few to tone them up,” responded The Pickle untroubledly.

“Guess I’ll run up and see Sims when I get ashore and ask him for a

berth on one of the new destroyers.”

“Sure,” approved Pete. “Drop in about noon an’ take dinner. He’ll be

tickled to death to have you. An’ you might mention my name to him,

too.”

“And mine,” laughed Dave. “I’d advise you to get some other togs first,

though, Bob. You wouldn’t make much of a hit at the Admiralty the way

you are!”

The Pickle observed his attire judicially. He wore a faded brown

sweater, much torn and moth-eaten, a pair of old gray trousers and

shoes at least three sizes too large for him. For that matter, neither

of the others could boast much of their apparel. “How are we going to

get uniforms, Pete?” Dill asked. “Will they give us new ones for the

asking?”

“Sure! If they don’t I’ll disgrace ’em by sittin’ on the Admiral’s

front doorsteps all day with a sign on me: ‘This is the way Uncle Sam

dresses his sailors!’”

“They’d think you were a tramp, Pete,” said Dill, “and pull you in for

impersonating a sailor. Say, I wish they’d quit dragging for these

blamed mines and hike out for home. What sort of a burg is Plymouth?”

“How do we know?” asked Pete. “What do you take us for, perishin’

Britishers?”

“Well, how do we get to Queenstown, then?”

“Walk,” suggested Pete. “Seems to me these fellers might drop us at

Queenstown or some place this side, so long as it’s Ireland. We ain’t

but a dozen miles off now.”

“It’s a long dozen,” said The Pickle, stretching his neck to look

over the rail. “Hello, there’s the whole English navy coming! Or――or

something! Have a look, fellows!”

CHAPTER VIII

PETE MEETS AN OLD FRIEND

Southward a dozen columns of smoke showed, but the ships were still

hull-down as the three boys leaned on the rail and watched. They went

forward and found the skipper and “’Erbert” gazing through their

glasses. Lieutenant Cowan joined them, limping slightly from the

effects of the injury to his leg, and took the binoculars the skipper

proffered. Slowly the distant ships came up over the rim of the sea,

bearing northeastward.

“Cruisers and convoys,” said the lieutenant, returning the glasses,

“and one destroyer. They’re not American, sir.”

“Nor British,” replied the skipper.

“French, likely,” offered the mate. “But they’re not making for France.”

“They’ll pass us well to eastward, Lieutenant,” said the skipper, “and

I’m doubting they’d want to stop, but if you say the word, sir, I’ll

ask them to take you aboard.”

The lieutenant hesitated. Then, perhaps catching the eager looks on

the faces of Dave and his companions, he smiled and nodded. “Do so, if

you will, skipper. I’d like to get back and make my report as soon as

possible.”

Followed signals with the _Arabella_, and half an hour later the two

trawlers, having reached the end of their southward journey, parted

company and the _Good Venture_ hurried eastward to intercept the long

line of ships that were now in fair sight. There were seven in all,

four of them medium-sized merchantmen, two light cruisers and one small

destroyer. As they drew near every glass aboard the _Good Venture_ was

in service, for every one was puzzled over the nationality of the ships.

At length the skipper lowered his binoculars. “Got them now, sir,” he

announced. “Italian. Likely they’re out of their course by reason of

keepin’ wide of the coast along of Spain. There’s been submarines very

active west of Biscay of late. Now then, ’Erbert, look alive with them

signals!”

“’Erbert” got immediately busy and a few minutes later, by which time

the Italian ships were some two miles away, the ensign and code pennant

were run to the spreader. After a minute or two the second cruiser

answered and the mate bent on his signal flags with practiced fingers.

“We want to speak to you,” announced the _Good Venture_. The cruiser

answered “All right,” and wig-wagged to the destroyer, and the latter

swung out of line and roared down on the trawler. As she came the

skipper’s face was a study. “I say,” he appealed to the lieutenant,

“’ow am I talk to the blighter, eh? It don’t ’appen that you know

Italian, sir?” The lieutenant regretted that he didn’t. But he replied,

“I’ll try him in French if you say so. He will probably understand.”

“Do that, sir. I speak French myself, in a manner o’ speaking, but it

ain’t the sort an Italian would make out! And as for ’is own blinkin’

lingo, macaroni’s the only word I know.”

But, as it proved, the skipper’s alarm was unnecessary, for the young

officer who roared across at them from the bridge of the destroyer

spoke remarkably good English. The skipper sighed relievedly as he took

the megaphone and answered, “We’ve got an American lieutenant and a

dozen men, sir, from a submarine chaser as was blown up by a mine. Can

you take ’em aboard?”

“With pleasure,” responded the other. “Please ask them to be quick,

sir. Will you use your boat?”

“Yes, I’ll get them over in ’alf a jiffy. Greatly obliged, sir!”

Before he went over the side the lieutenant reimbursed the skipper for

the clothes they were wearing away, taking the money from a belt about

his waist. (“Me for one o’ them things,” whispered Pete enviously.

“If I’d had one I’d be in mighty near four dollars right now!”) The

skipper at first refused to accept payment, but at last consented

and the lieutenant followed the men into the small boat. It was,

Dave reflected, a fortunate thing that there was almost no sea, for

that little tender was loaded down to the gunwales and shipped water

whenever any of them took a deep breath. They waved good-by to their

friends aboard the _Good Venture_ and were presently climbing over the

side of the destroyer under the politely curious gaze of four officers

and, it appeared, most of the ship’s crew. They soon discovered that

knowledge of the English language was not general aboard the _Valgrana_

and until they went ashore at Portishead the next morning they had to

make known their wants and conduct their conversation in the language

of signs. But the petty officers and men with whom they came in

contact were flatteringly cordial and made it clear that they were

anxious to do anything and everything possible for the comfort of the

visitors. One swarthy gunner’s mate was fortunate enough to speak a

scant dozen words of English, and these, to the envy of his companions,

he used incessantly, somehow managing to derive a vast amount of

satisfaction thereby. “Uni’ Sta’es,” “Presidente Veelson,” “Betchoo

life” and “Sure, Mike” were his best efforts. Italian food was strange

but satisfying and the _944’s_ men were served by themselves and with

some ceremony.

The _Valgrana_ had had a brush with a U-boat on the way north and the

incident was described to them eloquently by waving hands and shrugging

shoulders and expressive grimaces, together with a torrent of strange

words, but, for his part, Dave didn’t get a very clear idea of that

engagement. The destroyer followed her companion ships up the Mersey

the next forenoon and they dropped anchor off Portishead about eleven,

and the lieutenant led his disreputable crew ashore and herded them in

the waiting room of a railway station. And there they stayed, observed

with vast interest by most of the villagers, until they were piled

into a train at about three and conveyed leisurely to Bristol. Owing

to the fact that their mid-day meal had been extremely sketchy, they

descended on a restaurant in Bristol like a horde of ravening locusts,

and didn’t pause until they had worked devastation. How much their

dinner cost the lieutenant Dave never learned, but it seemed to him

that there could not have been much left in that money-belt afterwards!

They were billeted in a small and none too clean hotel for the night

with permission to spend the evening as they liked but to be on hand at

the station the next morning promptly at seven-thirty. As there wasn’t

a cent amongst them, seeing the city promised to be a dull proceeding.

However, Dave and Pete and The Pickle determined to make the best of

a bad thing, and, if possible, derive some pleasure from an evening

ashore. They were a trifle conscious of their unusual attire at first

and were thankful when they reached a street sufficiently thronged to

allow them to pass unheralded by all the small boys in sight!

“Being a fishwrecked shiperman isn’t what the stories make it out,”

remarked Dill sadly. “I feel like something awful off a movie screen!”

“Gee, that would be great!” exclaimed Pete. “A movin’ picture show, eh?”

“Fine!” jeered Dill, “but just how do you think we’re going to butt in

on a movie without a cent of money? We surely can’t get past on our

good looks!”

“That’s all right, Pickle. First off, let’s find us a show. Do you

guess these folks’ll understand United States?”

They did. At least the one Pete addressed himself to did, and he even

walked a block with them to point out the way from the next street

corner. They thanked him and followed the indicated course, Dave and

Dill amusedly wondering what Pete had on his mind. A minute or so

brought them to their destination and they pulled up outside while Pete

looked the situation over. It seemed that in England a “movie” wasn’t

a “movie” but a “cinema,” something that Pete objected to strongly.

He likewise criticized the lamentable lack of flaming and enticing

posters outside the entrance. Except for a few dim lights and a wicket

doubtless indicating the presence of a ticket seller in the darkened

depths beyond, they might easily have imagined themselves outside the

entrance to anything save a “palace of amusement.” Evidently the rush

was over for, save for a few small boys who viewed our friends with

growing interest, the place was deserted.

“Like the looks of it?” asked The Pickle finally.

Pete shook his head. “It looks bum to me,” he said, “but you can’t

tell. It might be all right inside. Come on.”

“Where? What are you going to do?” asked Dave, holding back.

“See the show,” said Pete. “Put a front on now and follow me up.”

Pete advanced to the wicket, the others close behind. In the gloom

beyond it sat a girl and Pete made a sketchy bow. “Evenin’ an’

everything,” said Pete. “Me an’ my mates would like to see the

pictures, Miss.”

The ticket seller fixed her eyes on the ledge, and then, as nothing in

the shape of money appeared there, she asked sarcastically: “Well? This

ain’t a free show, your Lordship.”

“Sure, we know that,” replied Pete ingratiatingly; “but you see, Miss,

it’s this way. We’re American sailors and our boat was blown up by a

mine a couple o’ days ago an’ we ain’t got no money. You can search us,

honest! But you just pass us in, Miss, an’ we’ll be back an’ pay you,

sure as shootin’. Or maybe we’ll send it to you.”

“American sailors, eh? You look it! Clear out before I ring for the

doorman!”

“Honest, Lady――”

She must have rung, for the door swung open and a jovial and very

red-faced individual in a white waist-coat and a top hat sidled into

view.

“Now then,” he said cheerfully, “on your way, boys, on your way! Don’t

be blockin’ the entrance an’ keepin’ the crowds back.”

“We’re the crowd,” explained Pete, “an’――” He stopped abruptly. Then:

“Hello, Crim!” he blurted.

The man gazed at him in a puzzled way for a moment. Then recognition

dawned slowly, and: “Why, ’tain’t――’tain’t ‘Rags’ Rooney?” he gasped.

“You got me, Crim, but lay off the ‘Rags’ stuff. I’m travelin’ first

class now.” The two shook hands warmly. “What you doin’ here?”

“Showing Johnny Bull what a good cinema’s like, Rags. I’m running

this joint. What’s your lay?” He looked curiously at Pete’s queer

habiliments and then at his companions. Perhaps he was thinking that

his old friend’s objection to the name “Rags” was not sustained by the

evidence!

Pete explained briefly and airily, and Gus Crimmins’s eyes stood out

further than usual, which means that they became positively protrudent.

“Think of that!” he exclaimed. “You in the navy, Rags. Why, say, the

last time I saw you――”

“Pipe down!” interrupted Pete sharply. “Ain’t I told you I’m out o’

that? Don’t you know a swell when you see one?” He swung around on a

heel and struck an attitude, and Mr. Crimmins joined heartily in the

laugh that followed. Introductions followed, and then Mr. Crimmins said:

“Well, what are we standing here for, boys? Come on in and see the

show.” He held open the door and they passed through into the darkened

theater, Pete bestowing on the young lady in the ticket booth a grave

wink ere he disappeared. “Come in the office,” whispered the proprietor

hoarsely, “and sit down unless you want to see the pictures. They’re

old to you fellows, though, I guess. There’s a good one of Fairbanks

coming on at nine, though; ‘The Mixer,’ ever see it?”

They followed to the tiny office at one side of the foyer, although,

for his part, Dave would have preferred to have remained outside and

watched the hilarious career of an elongated Frenchman who at the

moment was clearing the roof of a Paris tram car of gendarmes by the

simple expedient of kicking them into the street. Mr. Crimmins closed

the door, found chairs for Pete and Dave, invited Dill to share the top

of a little desk and beamed at his guests.

“Say, Rags――I mean――what’ll I call you? Pete, eh? Didn’t know in the

old days you ever had a real name. Well, it’s good to see you guys. I

get downright homesick sometimes for a sight of Catharine street and

some of the old boys around there. I been away nearly six years now and

I suppose the old town’s changed, eh? I ran a movie house in Syracuse

and one in Harrisburg for a while and then a fellow told me there was

big money over here and I thought I’d come over and see. Well, I ain’t

done so bad, considering the war came along almost before I’d got

well started. They’ll stand for most anything in this town, so long’s

there’s a laugh in it. It’s the Wild West stuff they like best. They

just eat it up. It don’t matter how old it is――older the better for

that matter. I’m showing them stuff that’s so old the films are moldy!

Now tell me about you. Where’d you cop the swell duds?”

During the subsequent talk, carried on for the most part by the theater

proprietor and Pete, Dave gathered that Mr. Crimmins at the time of

his acquaintance with Pete had been conducting a dime museum in lower

New York, his attractions consisting principally of a tattoed boy

and a snake charmer. Also, Dave gathered that Pete was a decidedly

“tough” youth, with a propensity for fights, impromptu or arranged.

Mr. Crimmins recalled feelingly a certain occasion when “Rags” had

disposed of the pretensions of one “Feather” Cronin to the east side

championship in seven rounds in the loft of Hennessy’s stable. During

these revelations Pete seemed embarrassed and stole deprecatory glances

at his chums and smiled a bit shamefacedly when he found Dave grinning

at him.

Afterward they went outside again and saw the inimitable Mr. Douglas

Fairbanks play the part of an acrobatic Providence in a southwestern

mining town. At parting Mr. Crimmins begged them to come back and

accept the hospitality of the Crimmins domicile on the first possible

occasion. “Want you to meet the missis, boys, and see the kids. Say,

those kids are all right, too. Three of ’em. Great little tykes. What

do you say?”

They said they would, and then Mr. Crimmins shook hands all around,

and they made their way back to their hotel through a darkened city,

and lost their way three times in twenty minutes and might have been

wandering around Bristol yet had they not encountered a gruff “Bobby”

who, seemingly strongly inclined at first to arrest them as tramps,

finally consented to give them the benefit of the doubt and direct them

to their domicile. They slept like logs that night and the next morning

started by train for Holyhead under charge of Quartermaster Barry.

Lieutenant Cowan vanished and was not seen again until they had been

back in Queenstown for several days. Kennedy said he guessed the Old

Man was ashamed to be seen with them.

By the time the train――it was the fourth one they patronized that

day――pulled unhurriedly into Holyhead they had, it seemed, visited

every nook and corner of England――and parts of Wales! Still, they

enjoyed it, for few of them had ever visited England and their journey

took them past many interesting and picturesque places. At Holyhead

they boarded a small steamer, with some two hundred other passengers,

mostly women and children, and late in the evening stole forth without

lights and breasted the waters of St. George’s Channel. The distance to

Dublin, for that was their destination, was only fifty-odd miles, they

were told, but the _Port Erin_ was old and decrepit and made the worst

of a fairly rough sea. That wasn’t a pleasant night, for there were

only a few berths and most of the passengers had to sit up or sleep

wherever they could find a space in the crowded saloon. Many of the

women were ill and the stewardess had her hands more than full. To Dave

fell the duty of playing nurse to two small children, girls of four and

five, while their mother, a young Irish woman, gave herself up frankly

to the misery of seasickness. The Pickle lent awkward assistance, but

Pete, in his own language, “ducked.” “I might talk to the King o’

England or the President,” he explained ruefully, “but kids get my goat

right away. I never know what to say to them!”

The interminable voyage ended in the small hours of the morning, but

no one landed until daylight. The three boys managed to snatch two or

three hours of sleep after the _Port Erin_ reached the harbor, but at

five-thirty they were seeking breakfast, and by seven were entrained

again. They tried to get the quartermaster to miss a train so that

they could look around the town, but he was visibly impressed with the

importance of his duty and hustled them to the station at once. Irish

railways strongly dislike straight lines, perhaps never having learned

that they are the shortest distances between points. And the trains of

Ireland are never bothered by the flight of time. It was pitch dark

when the squad alighted at Queenstown and made their way to the new

barracks, but the satisfaction of getting “home” again made up for

everything.

The next day they presented themselves for new uniforms and outfits and

received them, and they also, by some miracle of legerdemain on the

part of Quartermaster Barry, received an advance of wages sufficient to

add to the self-respect inspired by new togs. They had, I think, all

been prepared to pose as heroes on their return, but, if so, they were

disappointed, for by September such adventures as theirs had become

unpleasantly common. The Pickle sadly opined that he guessed the only

way to get your names in the papers was to be killed.

Efforts to discover what disposition was to be made of them were vain.

No one seemed at all interested in them. They took their place among

numerous other unattached “gobs,” with title to bunks in the barracks

and three meals a day. Their companions from the _944_ disappeared one

by one in a most mysterious fashion as the days passed, but the trio

remained to kick their heels about the waterfront until――it was the

fourth day after their return――an orderly appeared with a summons for

Seamen Rooney and Garson to report to the admiral at headquarters.

CHAPTER IX

THE ADMIRAL MAKES GOOD

At headquarters they waited for some time in an anteroom. Through a

door at one side came the clicking of many typewriters and they could

see a small army of clerks, naval and civilian, busily at work. Others

shared their wait――several officers, an imposing gentleman with flowing

side whiskers and much gold watch chain who had the unmistakable look

of a man who had something to sell; an impatient, gruff looking chief

machinist; a quiet chaplain with the rank of a lieutenant-commander,

and a fussy little Irishman with a pronounced horsey aspect and――or so

said Pete, who was sitting nearest him――atmosphere. Now and then a door

at the end of the room opened and closed, they caught a brief glimpse

of a broad desk-table, a visitor slipped out, and the group in the

anteroom lessened by one.

Their turn came at last and the door closed behind them and they found

themselves, caps in hand, saluting a pleasant faced, elderly man with

gray mustache and beard who, wearing a white service uniform, was

seated at the broad desk they had glimpsed. At a second desk a younger

man, a lieutenant-commander, was writing. The orderly who had admitted

them awaited instructions and, after acknowledging the boys’ salutes,

the commander of the American naval forces signaled for him to place a

second chair beside the one that faced the big desk. Then, dismissing

the orderly with a nod, he motioned to the chairs.

“Be seated, please,” he said. “I have some questions to ask you that

will occupy some time.” A buzzer sounded outside and a stenographer

entered, notebook in hand, and seated himself near by. Dave could

have smiled at Pete’s expression of awe and embarrassment had he not

experienced somewhat similar feelings himself. “I believe you men were

on Chaser _944_ before she was lost recently,” said the Admiral.

“Yes, sir,” answered Dave. It was plainly evident that Pete was not to

be counted on at present for any conversation.

“And I think you had the somewhat unusual experience of being taken

prisoners by an enemy submarine and of later making your escape.

Suppose you tell me how that happened.” He glanced encouragingly from

Pete to Dave and then nodded at the latter. Dave, twisting his cap

and clearing his throat, began an embarrassed recital of the events

leading up to their capture. He made poor going of it at first, for the

knowledge that his words were being transcribed to paper by the busy

pencil of the stenographer worried him, but presently he managed to

forget that and his tale grew more coherent. Once or twice Pete gulped

and seemed on the point of joining in, but each time his courage failed

him. When Dave had ended the Admiral began to ask questions. By that

time Pete had found his voice and between them they managed to give

more or less satisfactory replies to about half of what was asked. It

dawned on Dave that they had been horribly remiss in not gathering

more information about the U-boat during their presence aboard, and

perhaps the Admiral thought so, too, but if so he was too kind to say

so. He asked about things that neither Dave nor Pete had thought of

observing, and toward the last their constant replies of “I don’t know,

sir,” became discouragingly monotonous in Dave’s ears. Nevertheless the

Admiral seemed to be satisfied with what he had learned, and he nodded

his head frequently with what they hoped was approval, and at last

signed to the stenographer to leave.

More questions followed then, but they were purely personal.

The Admiral asked about their homes, their length of service, how

they were getting on, and several other things, and the boys, who had

forgotten their awe by now, answered frankly and interestingly. Then:

“I think you men showed commendable presence of mind and courage

under the circumstances,” said the Admiral. “Some of the information

you have supplied is useful, and I am glad to have it. Another time,

if there should be another time, which I trust there will not be, it

would be well to remember that no detail of an enemy ship, either of

construction, armament, personnel or operation, is too small to be

of use to our navy, and this is especially true of underwater craft,

of which we know far too little, because of the fact that the enemy

is continually making changes in design and armament. This is not a

criticism, however. You did very well and showed pluck and good Yankee

ingenuity in getting out of a very awkward situation. You are without

a ship at present?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll see what can be done. I dare say you’d like to hang together,

wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” This was Pete, grown quite confident. “An’ there’s another

guy――I mean man――we’d like to have with us, sir, if it could be fixed.

He’s a Reservist, name o’ Dill. He was along when we hit the mine.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” replied the Admiral gravely, scribbling on a

pad. “The name is Dill, you say? The rest of it?”

“Pick――” began Pete, but Dave cut in hurriedly. “Robert D., sir,”

he said. The Admiral nodded. Then Pete said: “Beg pardon, sir, but

is there――would there――” He paused, floundering. The Admiral smiled

twinklingly.

“Yes? Speak up! What else can we do for you?”

“Well, sir, I was wondering if there was a chance for us on one o’ the

destroyers,” he stammered. “Him an’ me――an’ the other guy, too,――we’d

kind o’ like to get on a destroyer, sir.”

“Why, I wouldn’t be surprised.” The Admiral looked inquiringly across

at the lieutenant-commander. “The _Conklin_ is short, isn’t she?” he

inquired.

“I believe so, sir. I’ll find out――”

“There’s no hurry, thanks.” He turned again to the boys. “I’ll do my

best for you,” he said pleasantly. “Is that all?”

Pete grinned. “I guess that’s enough, sir,” he replied. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Rooney. But I had thought of something else. I

like the way you boys slipped out of the clutches of that submarine

commander,” he said quite warmly. “By Jove, that appeals to me. I

suppose you wouldn’t either of you refuse an advance in rating?”

They shook their heads dumbly.

“Very well. You’ll get it. Promoted to petty officers of the third

class, Rooney and Garson. My congratulations to you. You’ll get your

assignments in a day or two. That’s all. Good morning and good luck!”

Both Pete and Dave felt it incumbent on them to say something, but

after a glance at each other they only saluted and made for the door,

conscious of an amused twinkle in the Admiral’s eyes and a broad smile

on the countenance of the lieutenant-commander.

Outside the building Pete drew himself up haughtily, a wide grin on his

freckled face, and saluted grandly. “Congratulations, Mister Garson,”

he said pompously.

“Same to you, Mister Rooney,” responded Dave with equal empressment.

Then they began to laugh, and Pete sent Dave staggering with a slap on

the back, and they joined arms and went down to barracks very proudly.

It took them almost an hour to find The Pickle and the search led them

over half the town, but they did discover him finally and joined him

with set and serious countenances and very stiff backs and acted so

strangely that The Pickle soon lost patience.

“Say, what’s wrong with you two?” he demanded huffily. “Swallowed a

ramrod or what?”

“Are you addressing me?” asked Pete haughtily.

“No, I was speaking to that other donkey over there.” Dill indicated a

patient, moth-eaten animal hitched to a diminutive cart. “But you may

bray if you want to.”

“What extremely low manners these common seamen have,” observed Dave

to Pete. “To think that one has to associate with them, eh?”

“Awful!” Pete positively shuddered. “No respect for their superiors

either, the ignorant goats!”

“Who’s my superior, you?” The Pickle laughed scornfully. “Just because

you’ve been talking to the Admiral’s orderly up there you think you’re

he-men, you pieces o’ gear!”

“Pieces o’ gear!” exclaimed Pete, horror stricken, appalled. “My word,

Mister Garson. We ought to put him in the brig for that! A common, low

‘rubber sock’ referrin’ in such terms to petty officers of the United

States Na――”

“Petty officers!” gasped The Pickle.

Pete nodded condescendingly.

“Well, what――do you――know――about that?” marveled The Pickle, awedly.

“Petty officers!”

Dave tried to look unconscious of his new honor, but only succeeded in

smirking.

“Well, sir, that explains something I never knew before,” mused Dill.

“It sure does.”

“An’ what might that be, my good man?” inquired Pete, suspiciously.

The Pickle edged imperceptibly away. “Why they’re called ‘petty,’” he

answered sweetly.

But The Pickle was honestly very pleased about it, and he had to hear

the whole story from first word to last, for which purpose, now being

the proud possessor of something like seven dollars of English money,

he led them hurriedly away to the best of the small hotels that lie

along the waterfront and seated them at a table. It wasn’t time for any

recognized meal, neither breakfast, dinner, supper nor five o’clock

tea, but that made no difference to them and they ordered a generous

repast of chops and baked potatoes and ginger ale, and while it was

preparing Dave and Pete talked a duet. And when they had reached their

flight from the Admiral’s presence and brought the story down to date

The Pickle filled a tumbler with the sparkling “wine of the country,”

as he called it, and toasted them.

“To the two pettiest officers in the Service!” he shouted.

He was, or professed to be, incredulous of being assigned to duty with

his friends, but ultimately he was forced to acknowledge that the

Admiral had “made good,” for two days later Dave and Pete were promoted

to gunners’ mates, third class, and Seaman Rooney, Garson and Dill were

ordered to the destroyer _Conklin_.

PART III

STAND BY!

CHAPTER I

DESTROYER “GOBS”

On the 17th of September, 1917, word reached the British Admiralty to

the effect that the Austrian torpedo boat destroyer _Neusatz_, which

had been interned in the neutral port of Huelva, Spain, since shortly

after the beginning of the war, had secretly refitted and, on the night

of the 15th, slipped out of the harbor. As to her destination nothing

was known, but the Admiralty assumed that she would seek to reach one

of the German naval bases in the North Sea by keeping well to the

westward of the British Isles and north of the Faroes. There was not

the least doubt that the port authorities at Huelva had winked at the

_Neusatz’s_ escape, for Spain was then strongly pro-German. Orders were

broadcasted to all Allied ships and to all agents in neutral ports

warning them of the destroyer’s departure from Huelva and instructing

ships to watch for and capture her and agents to report any news of

her. It was not thought likely that the _Neusatz_ would maintain her

character of an Austrian ship during her flight. Rather, the chances

were that she would pretend to be Italian or Portuguese. But in any

case she must not be allowed to escape, and in consequence there was

much activity in various harbors on the 17th of September.

At Queenstown the activity especially concerned the two new American

destroyers, _Conklin_ and _Wood_, which had within a few days dropped

their anchors off Spike Island at the completion of the voyage from

the other side. They were sister ships, numbers two and three of the

new _Stockwell_ class, of 1,270 tons displacement, 321 feet in length

and capable of steaming 33.60 knots. Their batteries consisted of four

5-inch .50 caliber and two 4-inch .50-caliber rapid-fire guns and they

carried four triple 18-inch torpedo tubes. They had four funnels and

two masts and were camouflaged with “sun-and-mist” colors, pale yellow

clouding to sea-green and pearl-gray, so that even viewed from the

waterfront a mile away they were scarcely distinguishable from sea and

sky. Had it not been for the grimy lighters snuggled alongside the

_Conklin_ that recent graduate from the shipyard might easily have

remained undetected in the quivering glare of sunlight.

It was the half-hour after four, and one bell had just tinkled from the

many ships, big and little, at anchor, when the _Conklin’s_ winches

hummed and the two big anchors came dripping from the mud. From two

of the four funnels yellow-brown smoke became visible against the

pale blue of the afternoon sky. Two long blasts of a siren pierced

the comparative silence and the U. S. S. _Conklin_ moved slowly down

the harbor. Many short toots followed her from the _Wood_, and were

answered in kind, and on the decks of the two ships caps waved a

parting. Between the two forts that make a pretense of guarding the

entrance the destroyer slipped, the calm water curving away in two long

symmetrical waves from the high, stiff bow. On the bridge, low but set

well forward, Captain Gannett and his executive officer, Lieutenant

Chapin, stood together at the forward windshield and kept keen watch of

the channel.

The “gate” of steel nets was open, but the space was narrow and certain

egg-shaped objects were anchored in three depths below the surface to

port and starboard, and the commander of a brand-new ship would do ill

to collide with one of them! The captain held the grade of commander

and was phenomenally old for the destroyer service, having recently

passed his thirtieth year! He had changed the gold leaf on his collar

for the silver less than a month ago and was still a little conscious

of promotion and secretly much concerned with the safety and well-being

of his new command. In appearance he was short, stocky, blue-eyed and

red-haired and held himself so straight that he seemed to lean backward.

Lieutenant Chapin was a good six years younger, a tall, athletic man

with good-looking, regular features, dark complexion and steady brown

eyes. They were already calling him “Beauty” on the lower deck. The

_Conklin_ carried two other commissioned officers, Lieutenant Penter,

Junior Grade, and Ensign Whittemore, Medical Reserve. The first was

head of the engineer department and the latter was the medical officer.

One hundred and eighteen warrant and petty officers and men completed

the ship’s complement.

The _Conklin_ left the lighthouse on Roche’s Point to port and swung

her nose toward Old Head. She was rolling a little now, and her high,

knife-sharp bow was tossing the waves away in cream-white foam.

Kinsale and Clonakilty fell astern and presently Clear Island detached

itself from the shore and the _Conklin_ swung more to the west. Fastnet

Rock came into sight, a dark, jagged tooth rising nearly a hundred feet

straight up from the tumbling waters. The destroyer passed close to

it on the seaward side, so close that those on deck could see plainly

the form of the man who, from the lower gallery of the great stone

tower, ran up the answering pennant to the _Conklin’s_ signal. Strong

currents and wicked tides surround the Fastnet Light, while under the

water needle points and ridges of rock lurk treacherously. Four and

a half miles out to sea, it is the first light that the east-bound

mariner raises and the last seen on the westward passage. “Old First

and Last” some call it. Its light, sweeping seaward from a height of

159 feet, can be caught twenty miles away on a clear night, and its sky

reflection is visible much farther.

Dave, Pete, and Bob Dill, otherwise The Pickle, leaned against a

starboard torpedo tube and looked at the lighthouse with interest. They

had never been so close to it before, and perhaps never would be again,

for the perils that lie in the neighborhood of Roaring Water Bay are

not often courted. “Must have been some job to build that,” observed

Bob. “Took them four years, I think. The little round affair on the top

of the rock is what’s left of the first light.”

“What happened to it?” asked Dave.

“Oh, they pulled it down when they built the new one, but it was just

about ready to come down, anyway. It was an iron affair and the waves

played hob with it.”

“The waves!” exclaimed Pete. “Gee, do the waves get up there?”

“So they say. How’d you like to ride one of them, Pete, and come down

smack on one of those sharp summit rocks?”

“Must be some waves!” he grunted. “Does the guy that ran up the signal

have to stay there all the time?”

“Yes. Want the job?”

“I do not! Gosh, think o’ bein’ up there in a real storm! I’d be scared

to death!”

“I read a funny story about a fellow they sent out there to do some

work when they were building it,” chuckled Bob. “He was a plumber and

they took him out one morning and set him to work. He was to live

there till the job was done. During the day it wasn’t bad, because

there were other workmen about with him, but when it came night they

turned in and went to sleep. That was enough for him. He didn’t sleep

a wink, they say, and was scared green, and when morning came he

demanded to be put back on shore. They laughed at him and then they

tried persuasion, but it didn’t do any good. He was going home, and he

was going right off. So, finally, when he simply refused to do another

stroke of work, they had to signal the mainland. It was too rough that

day for the steamer, but there was the distress signal flying on the

rock, and so a lot of huskies jumped into the life-boat and pulled out,

taking a doctor along. When they got out there and found what was up

they wanted to kill the plumber. However, they bundled him in and took

him back, and it wasn’t until he had his two feet set firmly on land

that he got his color back.”

“Well, I ain’t blamin’ him much,” said Pete. “I guess I’d a lot rather

‘go over the top’ than take that job.”

There was a faint gleam from the tall tower before it dipped from sight

in the twilight, by which time the _Conklin_ was off Mizzen Head and

rolling a good thirty degrees. They had no use for the tables at chow

that evening, and every one ate as best he could standing, usually

holding tightly with one hand to something stable. They passed a pair

of British torpedo boats wallowing south-eastward just as darkness

closed down and nearly walked into a trawler a few minutes later. Only

the latter’s frantic, gruff protests saved her from a tragic fate, the

_Conklin_ rushing past her close astern as both ships sheered from

course. All night the destroyer hugged the coast, cutting the corner

but letting herself in for some rough going. The life-lines were strung

along deck and one progressed by a series of hazardous rushes, clinging

hard every moment and ducking under the seas that came aboard. Dave had

the first watch, from eight till midnight, on deck, and climbed down at

eight bells dripping water from head to foot. Sleeping was difficult,

for it was his first night at sea on a destroyer and even the tiny

_944_ had never in her maddest moment rolled as did the _Conklin_. The

destroyer drew but nine feet――a few inches under that, to be exact――and

there was twice nine feet above the water line forward, and much weight

on the main deck, and in consequence rolling was the ship’s long suit.

But it wasn’t until Dave spent his first hour in the foretop lookout

cage that he learned what the _Conklin_ was really capable of! But that

night, braced in his bunk on the lower deck, just where he got the

benefit of noise and stench from the engines, he despaired of sleeping,

and it was not until he had rolled and pitched for a good hour that

slumber finally visited him. When morning came he found that every

muscle in his body ached from the efforts he had made, consciously and

unconsciously, to keep in his bunk.

They were out of sight of land at sunrise, dipping along through long,

even swells at standard speed. There was a blue sky overhead and a

nippy west breeze sang in the stays and aerial. There was gun drill

for all crews that morning and Dave and Pete, assigned to No. 2 and 5

guns, respectively, were busy. The Pickle was seeking to qualify as

signalman. In the wardroom, at the big table, the officers spent much

time poring over charts and evolving theories as to the whereabouts

of the _Neusatz_, only they were calling her the _Nuisance_ now. The

chance of finding her before she slipped down into the North Sea around

the Faroes or the Shetlands looked pretty slim. Once in the North Sea

her chance for reaching safety was more than fair, for, while a whole

flotilla of patrols and scouts might be watching for her, the fogs were

thickening over that stretch of troublous water these fall days and a

much bigger ship than the _Neusatz_ might run from the Shetlands to

the Frisians, with good luck, and never be sighted. But the Old Man

and the Executive and the Junior, and the medical officer, too, when

he had a moment from his task of decoding the messages thrust in from

the wireless house, pondered and scowled, and planned and kept the

_Conklin_ kicking her way northeast.

It was an empty ocean they sailed that day, and a big whale disporting

himself in the distance was the only object to bring a flicker of

interest to the lookouts. Toward midnight, though, a darkened cargo

steamer answered their questions and slipped southward into the gloom.

She would have made a fine target, as Pete pointed out, and it seemed

too bad to let her go without a shot, he thought. The fact that, as

Dave pointed out, being Danish made her a neutral had no effect on

Pete. He was much in love with that No. 5 gun and wanted to see what

she could really do. Besides, he complained, Denmark wasn’t really

neutral, she just played at it.

Life on a destroyer was a good deal different from what either Dave or

Pete had fancied it. It was exciting, even when no excitement offered,

for the _Conklin_ had a fine, hearty way of throwing herself through

the seas at anywhere from fourteen to thirty-three knots that always

promised developments. The men aboard were in nearly every case picked

“gobs,” and a fine, clear-eyed, upstanding lot they were. Most of them

had seen several years’ service, some on destroyers, some on the larger

ships, and not one that Dave ever found was willing to go back to the

“high decks.” The destroyer service is hard and it’s dangerous, but

perhaps those very facts make it attractive. At all events, it is a

fact that your destroyer gob looks with contempt on dreadnoughts and

cruisers and considers submarine work no better than child’s play.

It took Dave many days to get fairly accustomed to being continually

on the lurch. Moving about meant letting go of one thing to clutch

another, and sleep when the _Conklin_ was “rolling fifty” was a fine

art to be attained only by hard experience. But he liked it, and so

did Pete and The Pickle. Even being seasick――and they each had a bout

of that during the first two days at sea――didn’t greatly dampen their

enthusiasm. The _Conklin_ was seldom dry above deck forward of her

second funnel, for she had a contemptuous way of slamming her bows

under and spilling the waves far back along the fo’c’sle break. Even

the bridge was wet in any save the smoothest seas, and the new winter

clothing that had been issued before leaving port was something to

glory in. Three hundred miles off the Hebrides in late September is a

coolish part of the globe, and the apparel that made them look like

Arctic explorers was never too warm for night watch on deck.

The wireless rained messages into the ward room and the decoding

officer used up many a pencil those three days. But the best news that

reached them was no news. From the fact that the _Neusatz_ was not

reported either captured or sighted it was evident that she was still

at large and, it was fair to assume, as much the _Conklin’s_ game as

any one’s.

They began a series of east-and-west jaunts that took them a hundred

miles or so back and forth south of fifty-seven. Once they went so

far east that they heard heavy guns and had visions of a battle until

listening told them of target practice. Now and then a scouting patrol

passed and exchanged signals, but a gray destroyer in a hurry, with

three funnels, which was what every eye searched the horizon for,

failed to show up. The _Neusatz_, it seemed, had vanished utterly. In

the small fo’c’sle, two decks under, where, by the light of battle

lanterns set close to the deck, the off-duty men played cards during

first watch, and, safe from eavesdropping, spoke their minds concerning

the officers, a theory was born. It was Nicky, QM2C, who evolved it

somewhat painfully under his auburn thatch as follows:

“What that _Nuisance_ has done is this, to my way o’ thinkin’, fellers.

She’s gone a-raidin’.”

“Raiding!” scoffed Mullins, first class fireman. “How long could she

stay at sea with only enough oil to last her three or four days? And

ain’t she an oldish tub, never doing much better than twenty? What sort

of a raider would she make?”

“She wouldn’t need oil for more’n four days,” answered Nicky. “She’s

likely in the Bay of Biscay, putting in when she likes to one o’ them

Spanish ports and gettin’ all the fuel she needs.”

“Ain’t Spain nootral?” demanded Mullins.

“In your eye! The Hun subs have been dodgin’ in and out o’ the Spanish

harbors for months, and every one knows it. They goes in at night and

gets oil and mail and anything they like and slips out afore mornin’.

What’s to prevent the _Nuisance_ doin’ the same, hey?”

“There’s something in that,” observed Craigthorp, master at arms, third

class, looking up from his cards. “If the _Nuisance_ has such small oil

tanks and can stay at sea only four days, where is she? Unless some

one’s got her and hasn’t reported. Or she’s gone down. If she left

Huelva on the fifteenth she must have run out of oil two days ago.”

“She could store oil in barrels,” suggested some one else. “She’d have

to, anyway, to make the trip they say she’s making.”

“She’s raidin’ in the Bay of Biscay,” reiterated Nicky convincedly,

“an’ some day you’ll find I’m right.”

“You better climb topside and tip off the Old Man,” jeered Mullins.

“Maybe he’d like to know so’s he could beat it back down to Biscay.

Anyway, you oughtn’t to keep valuable information like that to

yourself. It ain’t fair to the Navy! Say, look here, you goat, a

raider’d have about as much chance in those waters as――as you’ll have

of goin’ to heaven. Why, there’s a chaser down there for every ten

miles o’ sea.”

“All right. You wait.”

Not being able to do anything else in the matter, they waited. And

twelve hours later the mystery was solved.

CHAPTER II

A CHASE INTO THE FOG

It was a few minutes after two bells in the forenoon watch when the

foretop spotter called down to the bridge through the voice tube:

“Smoke broad off the port bow, sir!” The _Conklin_ was steaming

north-northwest, gradually coming about on the western end of her

cross-sea patrol. On the bridge the executive and a quartermaster

captain snatched binoculars and swept the hazy horizon. The executive

officer turned to the tube. “Where?” he asked. “Can’t see anything down

here.”

“Just a mo, sir!” answered the spotter glibly, too interested to be

formal. “Now she’s coming thicker, sir. Broad off the bow, or a point

or so――”

“Why don’t you say what you mean?” growled the executive fearsomely,

as he turned again toward the indicated quarter. He saw it then, a few

trailing streaks against the misty gray of the morning sky. The QC had

it too and silence reigned for a moment. Then:

“Better have a look,” muttered the lieutenant. Orders to wheel-house

and engine room followed. The _Conklin_ swung her bow toward the

distant smudge and from her own stacks the smoke poured faster and

blacker. She “picked it up” to twenty-eight and went boiling into

the southwest. Hatches, round coal-holes just big enough to emit a

man if he wasn’t too fat, spouted gobs and the deck grew animated

with conjecture and hope. Gradually the distant smoke took shape and

then the ship stood up out of the sea and mist and glasses searched

her from stem to stern. The Old Man, summoned from below, gestured

disappointedly.

“She’s not our meat,” he sighed. “Four funnels. The _Neusatz_ has only

three. I thought for a minute we’d found her.”

“Me, too,” grumbled the executive. “Wonder who she is?”

“Better ask her,” said the captain. “Looks Italian to me. But I don’t

know what an Italian destroyer’d be doing up here. If it wasn’t for the

four stacks I’d lay you ten to one she was the _Neusatz_.”

“She’s changing her course, sir,” called down the lookout. “Heading

west’ard.”

“H’m, looks as though she didn’t want to play with us,” muttered the

Old Man. “Run up your signals, please. Let’s find out about her.”

Presently the colored flags fluttered from the foremast. Several

miles still separated the two destroyers, but when the bunting on the

stranger broke out it was not difficult to read the signals through

glasses. Nevertheless the lieutenant muttered and the signal men

stared, and:

“Something wrong,” declared the executive.

“He’s crazy,” said the Old Man. “That doesn’t make sense. Tell him I

want to see his papers.”

Again the _Conklin_ spoke. Across the water the stranger kept on her

way, heading straight into the west and losing no time. The _Conklin_

roared and shook as she answered the challenge. Then tiny bits of

bunting appeared in the distance and eager eyes read their message.

“Italian destroyer _Sondrio_, eh?” murmured the captain. “Why couldn’t

he say so? I didn’t see any number there. What’s the _Sondrio’s_

number, Mr. Chapin?”

“Twenty-four, sir,” replied the lieutenant, referring to the register.

“Seven hundred and fifty tons, length 290 feet, speed twenty-seven

knots, two masts, four funnels.”

“Sounds all right, but――”

“There’s something wrong with one of those funnels,” interrupted the

ensign. “It’s got a list to port, sir. Isn’t in line with the others.”

“You’re right,” agreed the Old Man, staring through his glasses. “Must

have been hit there.”

“Unless it’s a fine bit of camouflage, sir,” replied the ensign.

“Eh? By Jove, that’s possible! Guess we’ll have a closer look. Tell him

to stop his engines.”

But the _Sondrio_ was haughty. Three miles away, she answered that

she was on special duty and in a hurry, and to prove the latter she

straightway proceeded to leave that part of the world at the best

speed she could manage. On the _Conklin_ the Old Man grew red of face

and sprang to the engine room tube, and in another sixty seconds the

American ship was doing every inch of her 33.60 and the foredeck was a

wet place and the bridge scarcely better. But the stranger still had a

fair three-mile lead, and beyond her a bank of fog was moving eastward

and on the _Conklin’s_ bridge uneasiness prevailed. Once in that fog

the _Sondrio_ might yet slip from them. Quarters was sounded and the

gun crews, already hovering at stations, became busy. Ammunition boxes

appeared as if by magic and were broken open, plugs swung back and

bores were examined. The _Conklin’s_ boilers roared and the long,

slender ship plowed through the water at a speed that sent the wind

tearing along her decks and flattened down the great clouds of oily

smoke that poured from the funnels. She was gaining fast on the other

ship, but that fog bank was drawing momentarily nearer and nearer. Ten

minutes passed and the three-mile lead was cut to two. At Number One

gun the crew watched and waited eagerly, for they were to have the

first word when the time came.

Ten minutes more and the exec. was giving the deflection and ranges:

“Seven thousand, five hundred!... Seven thousand!...”

The moments dragged. At last: “Are you on?”

“On, sir!”

“Fire!”

Number One spoke sharply and a five-inch shrapnel shell sped on its

mission of destruction. From the bridge they watched intensely. A

column of water sprang up astern of the fleeing destroyer.

“Short!” muttered the Old Man. From the fire control came the

correction. Number One’s plug closed behind a new charge. Again the

sharp bark and another shell flew whining across the sea. But the other

ship had all the luck that day, for the second shot was another miss,

striking close alongside to starboard and drenching the deck but still

missing. And then, as though by a miracle, the fleeing craft utterly

vanished from sight, swallowed up by the onrolling bank of gray mist!

A third shell followed, while growls of disappointment arose from

bridge and deck. “Good _night_!” exclaimed the ensign disgustedly.

“Great Scott, what rotten luck! Down there, do you think you got her

the last time?”

The gun captain turned a sorrowful countenance upward and shook his

head. “No, sir, I don’t,” he answered.

Silence and suspense followed while the _Conklin_ plunged ahead toward

the oncoming fog. A breath of cooler, damper air rushed across the

bow and then they were in it and, from forward, the after half of the

ship melted into nothingness. The second funnel disappeared and the

first grew dim and spectral. “A regular North Sea particular,” growled

the Old Man in disgust, walking the bridge from side to side. “It’ll

last for days, or I miss my guess. We’ll take her north, gentlemen.

It’s a bare chance that we may pick her up again when this lifts.” To

the engine room went the order to slow down to twenty-seven, to the

gun stations the order to secure. Half an hour later life aboard the

_Conklin_ was back at its former routine flow. But there was plenty

to talk about now, and they didn’t neglect it. Chagrin was deep for

a while, and there were uncomplimentary remarks passed bearing on

the sighting of Number One gun. But hope returned at length. What

had happened might happen again. The morning had proved that the

_Conklin’s_ mission was, after all, something else than merely slapping

the waves, that life was capable of holding tense moments. In short,

the incident, as disappointing as its outcome had been, had supplied a

new zest, and when spirits once began to rise they rose high. By noon

they were convinced that Fortune would lead them back to the _Neusatz_,

for not a man aboard doubted now that the destroyer was in reality

the craft they sought. Word of the suspicious funnel had traveled

below and aft and one of the signal crew averred with every sign of

truthfulness that he had himself seen that funnel flap in the wind!

Followed a chill afternoon and night, fog-wrapped, mysterious, in which

the destroyer, with “kettles all lit off for twenty-seven,” plunged

recklessly northward. Lookout duty was a grand farce, for one’s own

hand was invisible at the length of one’s arm when night came. The

sea was flat and oily and the _Conklin_ held herself as steady as an

automobile on asphalt. But the fog seeped into every far corner of

the ship and things grew clammy to the touch and the few lights along

the lower deck shone dim and reddish in the haze. But all night the

engines whirred and clanked and dripped oil and the big boilers sang

a frenzied tune, and another day dawned two hundred and fifty miles

nearer the Arctic. But one must take the dawn largely for granted,

for the world was still a gray void, and if there was a sun it was

well hidden. Somewhere east and north were the Faroe Islands, but for

the rest there was only open sea. There was a new chill in the air

to-day, and olive-drab sweaters showed above the V’s of overshirts.

The _Conklin_ was no longer hurrying. Instead, like a man having an

appointment for an hour he was not certain about, she lazed along in

the gray emptiness and changed her course from time to time. Spirits

showed reaction to-day. There was something peculiarly depressing in

that fog. Optimism was no longer rampant. From ward room to aftermost

storeroom you’d not have discovered a man who ever expected to see the

_Neusatz_ again. Life was horribly drear and dull and monotonous, and a

submarine slopping up alongside would have been a heaven-sent relief.

But there was never a periscope built that could penetrate that gloom,

and so even that blessing was denied them. There was much growling, and

chow was poor and a man was a fool to join the Navy, anyway. At least

a hundred normally even-tempered, high-spirited young men rued the day

they had signed enlistments.

But nothing lasts forever, even fog around 60 north latitude, and Dave,

on graveyard watch that night, saw stars peek dimly down through the

murk before he tumbled into his bunk, and found sunlight and a cold,

fresh breeze awaiting him in the morning. Spirits arose again. Even if

they had missed the _Neusatz_, and it was a safe wager that such was

the case, there were other ships afloat that needed attention, and life

was not nearly so black――or gray――as they had painted it yesterday.

Dave was swinging lazily from side to side in the canvas “bucket” of

the foretop in the morning, viewing an empty sea with longing eyes.

Looking down and back past the simmering funnels he could see the deck

draped with damp garments drying in the sun. Nearer at hand The Pickle

was earnestly wigwagging to an imaginary accomplice in the direction

of Iceland, one of three of the signal crew who had yet to learn. On

the bridge the QC was telling stories to the ensign. Everywhere ports

and hatches were open to sun and wind, and the long four-inch gun on

the fo’c’sle deck had been shorn of its canvas jacket and gleamed

with an oily luster. The _Conklin_ was taking life easy, and even the

gobs lolling about aft had a sort of “nothing to do till to-morrow”

air. Dave yawned and started a new survey of the encircling rim of

the world. There was nothing to expect, only blue water, sunshot and

dazzling in spots, a pale blue sky, and a horizon as clearly defined as

though drawn with a pen. Even birds were absent up here, and flotsam

scarce. A floating deck swab was something to talk of for five minutes

to-day. Northward, emptiness; eastward, emptiness; southward――

Dave’s eyes narrowed. He adjusted his glasses again. A moment passed.

It might be a tiny cloud floating up above the ocean edge, but――

He ducked to the tube.

“On the bridge, sir. Smoke two points off the port bow.”

CHAPTER III

THE FLAG COMES DOWN

The _Conklin’s_ bridge and deck awoke to activity. Men climbed to

vantage points and gazed eagerly into the southwest. It was many

minutes, though, before the little smoke streak was visible from the

bridge, several more before it showed itself to the deck. Even then it

was so faint that indecision held until Dave’s anxious eyes caught the

faint silhouette of a ship’s superstructure above the blue rim of the

sea and his voice carried the news in triumph to the bridge below.

After that the far-distant craft arose into view with amazing rapidity,

but there followed a long period of suspense during which the lookout’s

eyes ached as he sought to identify her as the destroyer they had lost

in the fog. Meanwhile the _Conklin_ was making straight for her, at

less than half-speed, so that there might be as little tell-tale smoke

as possible to be seen. Bows-on in a sunlit sea, the American ship’s

deceptive hues of hull and masts and funnels rendered her well-nigh

invisible to the approaching craft, and it was not until the distance

between them was less than a half-dozen miles that the latter showed

that she had at last sighted the _Conklin_. As she lengthened in shape,

swinging her nose northward, there were chuckles aboard the _Conklin_,

and many believed that had the latter been able to shut off all smoke

from her funnels the enemy would almost have walked into her arms! For

all doubt as to the other ship’s identity was now dispelled. Bowden,

chief master-at-arms, had taken Dave’s place in the cage and settled

the question speedily.

“It’s her,” he had reported, with more emphasis than grammar. “It’s the

one we chased Wednesday, sir!”

As she presented a broadside view it was clear, even at the distance,

that there was something queer about her first funnel. Every one

agreed on that, although none could say where the queerness lay. It

was perfectly spaced with the other three, was of a like size and

height, and yet, somehow, was far from convincing. If it was a dummy,

as they believed, it was cleverly contrived, for the glasses showed

smoke pouring from it as the destroyer sought to show her heels. But

the _Neusatz_ or _Sondrio_, whichever she really was, was not the

only craft with oil to burn, and the _Conklin’s_ boilers answered the

challenge in a trice, and the chase began.

Possibly the fleeing ship thought her twenty-seven knot speed to be

equal to the steaming ability of her pursuer. If so, she was soon

undeceived. At nine-forty general quarters was sounded on the _Conklin_

and the battle ensign run up.

At ten-twelve No. 3 gun opened the engagement. The first shot fell

short, but the range gradually decreased and soon all three bow guns

were hurling projectiles at a distance of about six thousand yards.

First blood went to No. 2 when a five-inch shell landed on the enemy’s

hull just above the water line and slightly aft of her fourth funnel.

By this time the _Neusatz_ had got the _Conklin’s_ range and shells

from two starboard guns were dropping close. The first hit wrought

havoc on the pursuer’s deck amidship, wrecking the torpedo battery and

tearing a deep gash in the thin steel plating. Several of the crew of

No. 4 gun were wounded, but only one seriously. A second hit a minute

later caused slight damage to the _Conklin’s_ port bow. The _Neusatz_

was armed with four guns of approximately 4-inch bore. The _Conklin_

was now steaming a quarter of a mile abaft the starboard beam of the

_Neusatz_ and pounding away with three of her five-inch guns with

deadly effect. The battle was too one-sided to remain long in doubt,

for the pursuer was firing three guns to the enemy’s two and serving

them more rapidly and with much better effect. When, shortly after the

_Neusatz’s_ second hit, a shrapnel shell from the _Conklin_ crumpled

the enemy’s first funnel, revealing a wreck of gas pipe framework and

painted canvas, a laugh traveled the length of the American destroyer.

The _Neusatz_ seemed unable to hull her opponent effectively, her shots

at first falling short and then sweeping over the deck. The latter

caused superficial damage to funnels and structure, and one shell burst

just aft the wireless house, carrying it away and wrecking a part of

the wheel-house forward of it and seriously injuring three men. But

that was the _Neusatz’s_ last bull’s-eye, for an instant later her

stern gun was disabled, and almost simultaneously a shell from No. 2

brought an end to the engagement by smashing its way through the waist

and exploding in the engine room. Clouds of steam rolled upward through

the midship hatches and a cheer arose from the _Conklin_ that deepened

as the red and white ensign which the _Neusatz_ had hoisted at the

beginning of the battle came slowly down.

The Austrian ship looked very helpless as the _Conklin_ bore down on

her. There were torn gashes in her hull from stem to stern on the

starboard side and her main deck was a litter of twisted or broken

steel. Oddly enough, her bridge, although swept with shrapnel, was

intact, and on it, behind the fluttering remnants of the canvas

shields, her commander impassively watched the American ship swing out

her boats. Beside him was the second in command. The crew was clustered

forward near the shallow break of the forecastle, phlegmatic, silent,

looking across with incurious gaze. From amidship steam clouds still

billowed up from open hatches and at the stern a trailing ribbon of

smoke told of a fire below deck. The _Neusatz’s_ engines were idle

and the crippled destroyer was losing headway as the _Conklin_ ranged

alongside and Commander Gannett, leaning from the side of the bridge,

saluted his conquered adversary.

“What ship is that, sir?” he called.

The reply was as expected and in fair English: “The _Neusatz_, sir. To

what ship have I surrendered?”

“The United States destroyer _Conklin_. Have you any boats you can use?”

“Not one.” The _Neusatz’s_ captain, whose coat sleeve bore the

two stripes and crown of a German senior lieutenant, betrayed his

nationality by his careful, guttural delivery of the English words.

He appeared to be about thirty-four or -five years old, was of medium

height, rather thick-set and had a square, red-tanned face. “Our

medical officer is killed,” he continued unemotionally, “and we have

many wounded. Will you be so kind as to send a surgeon?”

“I will do so, sir. Are your engines disabled, Captain?”

“One is. The other I cannot say of. We are also on fire aft.”

“Please muster your crew amidship, sir, and I will take them off.” The

captain saluted and turned to give his orders. The _Conklin_ carried

two boats and four rafts, and fortunately the boats had not been

seriously damaged. They were already lowered and awaiting the word to

pull across to the captive ship. Dave and The Pickle watched from the

_Conklin’s_ side as they traversed the fifty yards of water and drew

up beside the _Neusatz’s_ riddled hull. One by one the Austrian crew

climbed down and took their places and when the boats were filled they

pulled back. Possibly the larger part of the prisoners were Austrian,

but there were undoubtedly many Germans among them. As they reached

the deck they were swiftly searched for weapons or papers and then

passed below through the hatch. All told there were sixty-four who had

escaped serious injury. Eleven dead were later given burial, among them

a sub-lieutenant and a warrant officer. Fourteen others were badly

injured and were transferred to the _Conklin_ on stretchers. Counting

the two remaining commissioned officers, who came off in the last boat,

the complement of the _Neusatz_ had been ninety-one, a number largely

in excess of what the _Conklin’s_ officers had suspected.

Dave and Pete were among the party that, following the transfer of

the prisoners, boarded the _Neusatz_ with fire equipment and spent a

busy three hours fighting a stubborn blaze among the stores. That fire

was too close to the ammunition to make the work comfortable and the

detail experienced anxious moments. The task of fighting the flames

was made more difficult by the fact that only one of the ship’s pumps

could be used. Eventually, however, the smoke-blackened and somewhat

scorched fighters won their battle. Meanwhile artificers from the

_Conklin_ had been busy with the _Neusatz’s_ engines and boilers and

at five o’clock in the afternoon the ship was pronounced able to limp

along in convoy of the victor. Temporary patches were made to the hull

and the litter on deck cleared away. At dusk a crew of twenty-eight of

the _Conklin’s_ men and fourteen of the _Neusatz’s_ went aboard, under

command of Lieutenant Chapin, the engines were started again and the

two destroyers pointed their bows toward Pentland Firth, some three

hundred and eighty miles east-south-east.

It was then that Dave and Pete had their first parting, for Pete was

among those assigned to the _Neusatz_ and Dave was not. Dave watched

his chum disappear over the side of the captured ship with envious

gaze, for it seemed to him that getting that disabled craft to port was

going to offer some thrilling moments. Pete waved a hand gayly before

he passed from sight, and Dave and The Pickle waved back. The Pickle

had managed to get in the way of a flying fragment of shrapnel and was

rather proud of a bandaged hand and wrist. Dave, who had come through

fifteen minutes of action at No. 2 gun without so much as a scratch,

felt himself lucky, but neglected. There were others aboard who had

fared less fortunately. Three men had been killed outright on the

_Conklin_, and one, First Class Electrician Williams, had since died of

injuries. Besides these, seven men were seriously and several slightly

wounded. The _Conklin’s_ small sick bay was overcrowded and the injured

overflowed into the lower deck passages. At dark the two destroyers

were doing slightly better than nine knots toward the coast of Scotland.

CHAPTER IV

HEROES IN PORT

“Where’d you get it?”

That was a pert, black torpedo boat, the next afternoon, jumping across

the _Conklin’s_ bows a half mile ahead and wigwagging flippantly from a

perilous deck.

“About two hundred miles back,” replied the _Conklin_. “She’s the

_Neusatz_.”