“Congratulations!” The torpedo boat was visibly impressed. Perhaps a

bit disappointed, too, for she added: “Been looking for her myself.”

Then, wallowing off: “Shall I report you?”

“Please do,” answered the destroyer. “Am making Wick.”

The torpedo boat said something more, but distance and intervening

waves hid it.

They had had calm seas until nearly noon that day, but now, some 180

miles from the Firth, the northeast wind was tossing the waves high

and the _Neusatz_ was making hard going and the bilge pumps were busy

every moment. Lieutenant Chapin had managed to keep near the _Conklin_

all night, no mean task in the darkness, and with a starboard engine

continually demanding tinkering, and at dawn was only three miles to

the southwest. The sea got up more toward evening and the sun went

down in a bank of angry-looking purple-red clouds that by four bells

in the first watch had covered the sky and hidden the stars. The wind

freshened considerably and the _Conklin_ rolled and wallowed hard,

and there was much anxiety aboard for the smaller convoy. They picked

up North Rona Island about midnight and left Stack Island to port

shortly after daylight, and when Dave went off morning watch a hazy

streak eastward was said to be the Orkneys. They made Turn Ness before

noon and steamed into Pentland Firth. By that time they were in busy

waters. Suspicious trawlers demanded their business and once a small

gunboat labored near and held a long conversation. Past Stroma Island

mine sweepers were working diligently and the _Conklin_ was warned

to keep well away from Duncansby Head. It was mid-afternoon when the

two destroyers, victor and vanquished, came to anchor in Wick Bay,

enthusiastically welcomed by a small flotilla of patrols and trawlers.

There the prisoners were landed and the _Neusatz_ handed over to the

British Admiralty officer, and the _Conklin_ took on oil. She laid

at Wick that night, the Old Man, who had scarcely left the bridge a

minute for forty hours, sleeping the clock around, according to rumor.

The next day they were off again, back through the Firth and then down

along the west coast of Scotland, in a blue-gray mist that held the

_Conklin_ to half speed or less until she was in the Minch and hid the

coast from sight. After that the sun came back and there was much to

see; islands that sent them wandering from their course and headlands

that put them back again; glimpses of mist-draped mountains and firths

and lochs stretching inland like broad blue ribbons.

Dave and The Pickle tried to follow their progress on a folding map

that was eternally flopping itself back on its creases, and almost

got lockjaw attempting to pronounce such words as Ardskinish and

Kilchenichbeg and Maol-na-cala. There were more difficult ones,

too, but they knew better than to attempt those. Pete didn’t take

much interest in geography, preferring to put his back against

something――most anything answered――and fall asleep. For Pete, like all

the others who had spent two nights and the better part of two days

aboard the Austrian destroyer, was so far in arrears as to sleep that

he despaired of ever catching up. Pete had twice attempted to describe

that second night on the _Neusatz_ and had twice been forced to give up

for lack of a sufficient vocabulary. His attempts always ended with a

hopeless shake of his head.

There was a U-boat alarm as they approached the North Channel, and the

_Conklin_ sounded general quarters and Pete became very nearly wide

awake. But the periscope――if periscope it was that had greeted the

lookout’s gaze――disappeared and Pete went promptly to sleep again,

leaning against Number Five gun. They met a long column of empty

transports off Belfast, American ships of many shapes and sizes,

guarded by four destroyers, and the _Conklin_ was able to talk to some

one again in her own language. The naval guards on the transports waved

their caps and semaphored ridiculous messages to the passing destroyer.

The _Conklin_ rounded Power Head the next afternoon and an hour later

dropped her anchor off Queenstown again, and, oh, but the old town

did look good to her crew! They were heroes of no mean caliber when

they went ashore, and they made the most of it. For three days they

threw their chests out a good two inches beyond normal and put their

shoulders back so far that you could instantly tell a _Conklin_ gob

a block away from his similarity to a pouter pigeon! It is fair to

assume that the Old Man, too, felt a bit cocky as he went ashore to

make his report to the Admiral, and none of the crew blamed him. The

only question in their minds was whether he would be made a captain or

jumped to a commodore. There were some who believed promotion to rear

admiral was the least he could expect. As a matter of fact, all that

did happen was commendation in orders; except that the British Admiral

wrote out a compliment of his own which was posted on the bulletin

board.

The _Conklin_ underwent repairs and her gobs spent every possible

minute ashore. There was mail for all hands, and many home papers to be

read and not a few boxes to be opened. And there were many meals to be

eaten in waterfront hotels, for it was surely a fine change to sit at

ease in a chair and stretch your legs under a real table and not have

the coffee spill down the front of your shirt. And steak and onions,

and hot, heavy puddings, were a vast improvement on bacon and stews

and canned salmon. A day after the _Conklin_ got into port the _Wood_

returned empty-handed from her search, and the _Conklin’s_ men lorded

it over the _Wood_ gobs and there was a fine battle behind a warehouse

between husky representatives of the two destroyers in consequence.

When the dust had subsided Conroy, seaman, U. S. S. _Conklin_, was

lifted up tenderly and borne away for repairs, and the _Wood’s_ crew

held up their heads again now that honor was vindicated.

But the flesh-pots of Queenstown palled at the end of the third day,

which should have been the last day, too, in port, and there were

grumbles to be heard when it was rumored that the _Conklin’s_ repairs

would keep her tied to a dock another forty-eight hours. They watched

the _Wood_ up-anchor and depart jauntily, her men waving derisive

farewells and shouting insulting messages as she steamed past, and they

watched the _Conyngham_ slide up the harbor fairly radiating vanity.

The _Conyngham_ had, to use Pete’s disgusted report, “gone and got her

a little old eighty-foot sub and was so stuck-up you couldn’t talk to

’em!” That was all right, too, but if there were subs to be had it was

time the _Conklin_ was getting hers. And she wouldn’t be satisfied with

any half-portion U-boat, either. If she couldn’t bring in a regular

man-sized boat she’d bring none. So declared the _Conklin’s_ lower deck

with appropriate emphasis, and meant every word of it. In consequence

there was deep joy when the destroyer was at last again ready for sea

duty, and the delight of steaming into Cork Harbor six days before was

as nothing to the delight of steaming out again.

This time it was patrol duty, and the _Conklin_ was assigned to a

certain numbered square of the North Atlantic Ocean lying some 200

miles due south of Cape Clear. When their hunting ground was made known

to them there was some disappointment aboard, for it was too far south

for the lanes and too far west for German mine layers. It was felt that

the admiralty was not giving them a fair show. The Pickle, however,

suggested that perhaps as the _Conklin_ was a newcomer she mustn’t

expect the choice locations. “I suppose we have to take what’s left,”

he said. “But we’ve got the satisfaction of knowing that the fellows

who come after us will get worse places.”

“I’ll bet there’s a lot o’ favoritism in it,” said Pete, darkly. “Look

what we went an’ done. Nabbed the _Nuisance_ when the whole blame

British navy and half of our own was tryin’ for her. An’ the Frenchies,

too, maybe. Ain’t that something? What? Don’t that show we know our

business? Well, then, what’s the idea of shovin’ us away out there

where there ain’t nothin’ to see but whales an’ altroboses?” (Pete

never could say “albatross.”)

“At that,” remarked Gooding, machinist’s mate, “we might make a find.

Maybe the tin fish are leery of the old routes, now we’ve gone and

cluttered them all up with patrols. Maybe we’ll walk right into a

regular blooming convention of them.”

“Yeah,” assented Pete, sarcastically, “maybe we will. An’ maybe the

best we’ll get’ll be the worst. Honest, fellers, I don’t believe

there’s a quarter as many subs around here as they think there is. They

see the same Hun two or three times in different places an’ they think

he’s a different one each time. Stands to reason, don’t it, that if

there was as many as they make out we’d see one now and then? I been

fiddlin’ aroun’ here more’n a month an’ never seen but one.”

“I know fellows who’ve been over here since May and haven’t seen any,”

replied Gooding. “So there you are. Cheer up, though, Pete. The luck

may change.”

“All I’m afraid of,” Pete grumbled, “is that the war’ll be over before

I have a chance to shoot the daylights out o’ one o’ the murderin’

things. Bet you if we do find one, Lanky, it’ll be off to port where

I won’t get a whack at it! That old Kaiser’d ought to fix things so’s

we’d a better run for our money. I always said he was a piker!”

“The best way to find a U-boat,” observed The Pickle wisely, “is to get

on a transport. It isn’t us fellows they’re looking for, it’s the ships

with troops on them, or cargo boats full of grain and ammunition and

stuff. They’re wise owls, those U-boats. They don’t take any chances.

That’s why they live to a ripe old age.”

“That’s no jest,” agreed Pete. “Safety first’s their motto. I seen in a

New York paper the other day where they’d got twenty-four British ships

one week a while back. That’s fierce, ain’t it? Maybe I’m wrong about

it. Maybe there’s all the subs they say there is.”

“Those figures the British give out don’t take any account of all

the trawlers and sweepers and small boats that are sunk,” said Dave.

“I guess they think that if they made a clean breast of it we’d get

discouraged and quit.”

“The dirty, sneakin’, murderin’ scoundrels!” growled Pete. “Know what,

fellers? Well, I’m goin’ to get me one o’ them U-boats before I quit,

take it from Pete! I’m goin’ to get me one if I have to cruise round

this old ocean for ten years! An’ stoppin’ the war ain’t goin’ to make

no difference to me, either. I’ll be right on the job the day the

kaiser and King George sit down to lunch together!”

CHAPTER V

“SUBMARINE!”

They had the tail end of a southeast gale to buck against on their

way out and the _Conklin_, though a much steadier ship than the

older destroyers, did everything but stand on her stern. Dave put in

a strenuous hour in the foretop between ten and eleven that night.

Whether getting up to the cage or staying there after he was up was the

worst he couldn’t decide. The destroyer was plunging straight into the

huge seas, banging them down on her fo’c’sle deck in tons, slapping

them against the bridge in the shape of blinding spray and even tossing

the spindrift as high as the cage. She slid down into a trough, leaning

far to starboard, climbed up from it, whipping her mast to port, and

then crashed into a wave with a shock that made her tremble all down

her slender steel length. “Rolling forty” she was that night. Dave held

on with every muscle in his body as his roost dipped from side to side

and then leaned sickeningly backward or forward. An hour of it was all

any mortal could stand, and he was longing for his relief before his

trick was half over. Never a light peeked out of the gloom, and the

rushing shriek of the wind drowned even the noise of the waves pounding

aboard.

But getting below again almost made up for it. A cup of piping hot

coffee in the galley――there had been a time when it would have kept

Dave awake, but that was before he became a destroyer “gob”――warmed his

chilled body, and he clung to a table and chatted with the cook who was

deftly balancing himself while he scraped the dough for to-morrow’s

bread from the great mixer. Then he shed his outer clothes and climbed

into his narrow bunk and, holding himself there by his eyelashes, as

the saying is, heard the water sweeping past beyond a thin steel wall

and the steady hum of the engines and the roar of the big boilers and

the Swedish oiler known as “Yonny” whistling “Pack All Your Troubles

in Your Old Kit-Bag and Smile, Smile, Smile.” Dave heard other sounds,

too, such as Merritt, of his gun crew, giving an unconscious imitation

of a slide trombone in the bunk above, and the tramping of feet on the

steel plates overhead and, finally, the seven quick strokes of the

ship’s clock in the nearer fireroom. After that he must have gone to

sleep. At least he didn’t hear the watch changed, and when he awoke

the daylight was struggling with the electric bulb in the thwartship

passage.

The first day on patrol was a stiff one, for the gale subsided

slowly and the great, tumbling green seas tossed the destroyer about

incessantly. The life-lines were kept rigged all that day and coffee

was the only hot thing obtainable, since cooking when the range slanted

at forty degrees to port one minute and forty degrees to starboard

the next minute was out of the question. But hot coffee there was

in plenty, and some of the men, foresighted persons who had laid in

supplies at Queenstown, boiled eggs at the steam vents. But nothing

happened. Now and then a porpoise startled a lookout by his famous

impersonation of a “moldie,” which is a torpedo in plain English, and

terns and gulls squawked sorrowfully overhead or splashed at the foamy

summit of a big wave. All day the _Conklin_ ranged back and forth, up

and down, sometimes passing the time of day with a distant patrol, but

for the most part minding her own business very thoroughly, for the

sufficient reason that no other business offered.

There was less roll that night and sleep was not so much a gymnastic

performance, and the second day broke warmer and stiller, with only

long surges to climb up and down. The sun came out shortly after

morning chow and dried the wet decks and made warm and cosy corners for

idle gobs to re-read their latest home letters in. Life-lines came down

along the deck and one could walk from jackstaff to stern post without

risking life. Dave was hunched on the deck beside No. 2 gun, in a patch

of sunlight, writing to his mother, when a rude interruption came in

the shape of a sharp cry from the bridge above, and a moment later the

sounding of general quarters. As he had his life-vest on already he

had only to thrust paper and pencil into his pocket and climb to his

feet to reach his station. Having done that he leaned from the port and

had a look for the cause of the excitement. Nothing, however, showed

on so much of the ocean as was visible from No. 2 gun port, and it was

the Human Trombone――otherwise Alf Merritt――who supplied the desired

information as he hurried to his station.

“Periscope about half a mile off the starboard beam,” he explained a

trifle breathlessly, being plainly anxious to tell it before the other

arrived. “We all saw it. They say it’s a big one, the sub, I mean.

There were two ‘sticks’ about twelve feet apart.”

The rest of the crew interrupted Merritt’s narrative and Dave was too

busy with his duties to ask more.

The _Conklin_ spouted heavy black smoke from her four funnels, swung

around on her heel and raced westward. But the periscope was gone,

had, in fact, disappeared too soon for a shot to be fired at it, and

even depth charges were of questionable value. Dave had more than half

expected to hear the rending crash of a torpedo, but either the sub had

not discharged one or it had missed its mark. A single depth charge

was dropped when the destroyer had reached the approximate location of

the U-boat, but it was a forlorn hope and brought no reward. For three

hours the _Conklin_ ranged over a twenty-mile radius, the lookouts

never so sharp-eyed, but the submarine refused to show herself again.

Finally the search was given over in disappointment and disgust and the

destroyer returned to her former profitless task.

Up in the wireless hutch a message was tapped off to the flagship

a hundred miles away announcing the sighting of the U-boat and the

incident appeared closed. Then, at half-past three in the afternoon,

the same thing happened again.

This time the two periscopes were nearly a mile distant and remained

in sight, moving slowly on a nearly parallel course with that of the

_Conklin_ for some two minutes, during which time the destroyer again

spouted smoke and dashed to the fray. But, as before, the submarine was

coy and dived long before a shell could be fired. The _Conklin_ wasted

four depth bombs and hung around until dark. As the second sub had been

sighted seventy miles southeast of the first the impression aboard the

destroyer was that they had landed in a nest of U-boats. Disgust at

losing two chances in one day was mitigated by what seemed an excellent

prospect of finding a third “fish”; and, as, every one knows, the third

time is successful. The _Conklin_ swept eastward to the edge of her

patrol territory and ranged back again. At midnight a small chaser

signaled from the darkness and asked for the latest news of the enemy.

She, it appeared, had been dispatched to take a hand in the search.

The _Conklin_ replied with her blinker and the chaser disappeared

southward. Dave’s hour aloft came in the “graveyard watch” and he found

more thrill than usual in his task. But his night glasses failed to

show anything more than a far-distant light that flickered for a moment

in the west and went out. It might have been a signal from a patrol

or the stern light on an incautious steamer. At all events, it didn’t

appear again and Dave climbed down the shroud disappointedly.

The next morning at an hour or so after the half-hearted dawn of a gray

day the foretop lookout again electrified the bridge.

“Submarine awash broad off the port bow. About two miles, sir.”

The frenzied general quarters alarm hooted through the ship. Buckets

and swabs, brushes and cloths were stowed and the crew sprang eagerly

to stations. The _Conklin_ swept her sharp nose around and went piling

south southeast, leaving a cream-white path of tumbling foam behind her.

“She has no conning tower, sir,” called down the foretop spotter. “I

think there’s some one on deck.”

“One of U-54 class,” commented the Old Man. “I’ve got her now. Yes,

down through the hatch again. Ready with that No. 2 gun? What’s the

range?”

But even the five-inch was outdistanced as yet, and there was an

anxious period while the _Conklin_ fairly leaped through the sea.

Every instant they expected to see the darker object, that looked like

a sunning whale against the light and shadow of the tumbling waters

ahead, disappear from their sight as mysteriously as it had appeared.

“Fourteen thousand yards,” announced the fire control.

“She’s stopped her engines, sir.”

“What’s your speed?” demanded the Old Man impatiently at the engine

room tube.

“Thirty-three-forty-five, sir!”

“Hit her up! Bust her!”

“Thirteen thousand five hundred!”

“There’s something on the for’ard periscope, sir! Looks like a flag!”

“So there is! What do you make of it, lieutenant?”

“Flag, sir, and――and I think it’s white!”

“White! White!” sputtered the captain. “What’s it for? Who ever heard――”

“Yes, it’s white. It’s wet and is half wrapped about the ‘stick.’”

“Some infernal German trick, I suppose!”

“Shall we try a shot?”

“No――no. Hang it, you can’t fire on a white flag!” He called for slower

speed and the _Conklin_ eased up as she split her way through the

dancing waves. The sun shot a long streamer of pale amber light through

the gray clouds to eastward. “We’ll have to see,” muttered the captain.

“She’s broad on, and I don’t think her class carries broadside tubes,

but we won’t chance it.”

The _Conklin_ swung to starboard and presently back to port and so

continued the journey zig-zagging. The submarine drew nearer and

nearer. She was lying motionless save for the pitching and rolling

caused by the waves, with both periscopes extended and a piece of dirty

wet white cloth fluttering weakly from the forward one. There was no

sign of life aboard, but those on the _Conklin_ realized uneasily that

they were being closely watched through the periscopes. That the Hun

was up to some trick was the general belief on bridge and deck, and

when the _Conklin_ slowed and finally stopped some yards away from the

long, sinister, gray steel hull every available gun was ranged upon

it. The Old Man stepped to the edge of the bridge and put megaphone to

mouth, and at that instant a round hatch opened in the middle of the

slightly raised deck that took the place of a conning tower and a head

appeared. The captain waited. The man climbed through and as he did so

he raised his arms above his head in token of surrender. The _Conklin_

looked on in surprise not unleavened with suspicion. On the heels of

the first man appeared a second, and then a third, and a fourth, and

each held his arms up and moved out on the unsteady deck to make place

for others. How they managed to keep their feet on that wet, slippery,

heaving surface was a marvel. Man after man appeared until the deck was

clustered with them. Commander Gannett recovered from his amazement and

raised his megaphone again.

“Where is your captain?” he asked.

There was no answer for a moment. Then a sailor pushed himself

perilously forward. “Kamerad!” he shouted back. “Kamerad!”

“There isn’t an officer in the lot,” muttered the executive at the

captain’s shoulder. “Deuced funny, eh?”

“Speak English?” bawled the captain, raising his voice in the

unconscious way that one does in the circumstances.

Again silence. The men on the U-boat’s deck seemed to be talking among

themselves. Then a regular chorus of “Kamerad! Kamerad!” floated across

the water. The Old Man shrugged his shoulders.

“Lower a boat and see what their game is. Pass the word to the lookouts

to keep their eyes peeled. There may be another Hun around. Have we any

one aboard who speaks their rotten language?”

“Ensign Whittemore, sir.”

“Ask him to take charge and see what’s the matter over there. Never

heard of a sub insisting on surrender like this. There’s something

wrong somewhere!”

Over went Number One boat and the ensign and eight husky gobs sprang

into it and were lowered away. “Let go!” ordered the officer in the

stern sheets. “Give way!” The oars dipped and the boat headed for the

submarine. The Pickle pulled an oar in that boat and we’ll let him tell

the story now as he told it to a group on the lower deck afterward.

[Illustration: The oars dipped and the boat headed for the submarine]

CHAPTER VI

THE MUTINY

“They were a rum-looking lot, those squareheads,” began The Pickle.

“They looked as if they hadn’t had a square meal for two weeks.

Well, you saw them yourselves, so you know. But lined up on the deck

there, with their hands up and looking down at us as if we were their

long-lost brothers, they were sure a sorry, white-faced bunch. The way

the skin was pulled over their cheek-bones and the way their clothes

flapped around them got me! The ensign and Willet and I went down

through the hatch and the minute we got our heads under we wished we

hadn’t. The smell was frightful. It wasn’t just foul air or battery

fumes; it was――well, we soon found what it was. The ensign took one of

the men down with us, a sort of chief gunner I guess he was, and he was

so weak he fell the last half-way down the ladder, and Willet had to

pick him up and put him on his pins again.

“There wasn’t any sort of a conning tower, as you saw, but you went

right down straight into the central station. Things were in a fierce

mess down there and it was half dark. On the floor alongside a desk

with charts and papers on it lay the captain, dead as a doornail. He

wasn’t a pretty sight, for some one had bashed his head in. The ensign

turned to the Hun that was with us and pointed. I don’t know much

German, but I managed to get some of what they said. ‘What happened to

him?’ asked the ensign. The fellow shook his head. He was a stolid sort

of chap, about twenty-three or four, I guess. ‘Who killed him?’ asked

the ensign. Then the Hun said he didn’t know, although you could see he

did. ‘That’s the captain,’ said the ensign to Willet and me. ‘They’ve

probably done in the first officer too. We’ll see.’ He was a bit pale,

was the ensign, and I didn’t feel any too good myself just then. The

captain had been dead several days and it wasn’t very pleasant there.

Why they hadn’t got rid of the body I don’t know, unless they were too

weak to get it up the ladder. We found the next thing that the sub was

a mine layer, for there were two wells on her, with mines in each ready

to drop.

“It was Willet found the first officer. They’d shot him in his

berth while he was asleep.” The Pickle shivered. “Then we lugged the

squarehead into the stateroom and showed him the body and he ’fessed

up. As near as I could make it out his story was something like this.

They’d left Zeebrugge twelve days before with orders to proceed to some

place off France and drop mines. The first day they were out the men

found that she was poorly provisioned. They were most all old U-boat

men and knew what they were up against. So they talked it over and put

it up to the captain. Told him they hadn’t enough grub aboard for a

week, let alone three, and demanded that he return to a base and stock

up proper. But the cap said he’d got his orders and wasn’t going to

turn back and a lot more, and was pretty fairly brutal.

“Things went on for three days and then they sighted a merchantman

without escort off the east coast of Ireland and they got orders to

give chase. Well, they wouldn’t. They were half-starved already, not

having had more than one day’s rations in four, and were desperate.

So, when the Old Man threatened them with punishment for mutiny they

thought they might just as well be hung――or shot――for mutton as for

spring lamb, and when he drew a revolver one of them laid him out from

behind with a wrench. As he went down they grabbed the revolver and did

for the first officer, who was asleep in his bunk.

“Then they were in a bit of a pickle, for they knew that if they took

the boat back to Germany they’d get short shrift. They talked it over

and decided that the only thing to do was to surrender to an enemy

ship. So one of them, a sort of chief petty officer, took charge and

they set out to get themselves pinched. But it wasn’t easy, because

you see, just as soon as they’d show themselves the enemy would start

in to plug them without asking any question. They tried the trick by

wireless, but all they got was the merry ha-ha. Every one who picked up

the message thought some one was trying to get gay with him, I suppose.

So yesterday they tried us to see what we’d do. They’d been following

us ever since early morning. Well, we didn’t act friendly and their

courage gave out and they beat it. But they kept us in sight and tried

again in the afternoon. They’d put up that white flag of theirs, but it

was always wet when they came up and wouldn’t do much but wrap around

the periscope. Finally, this morning, they decided that they might as

well get killed as starve to death. What do you know about that for a

sea story?”

Although The Pickle had guessed at some of his details, he had got

the facts concerning what was perhaps the strangest surrender ever

made on the high seas correct enough. Meanwhile, however, the ensign

had made his report to Captain Gannett and the _Conklin_ got busy.

The submarine’s crew, twenty-eight in all, were taken off, some of

them so weak that they had to be lifted from deck to boat and from

boat to sick bay, and the bodies of the two officers were carried up

and unceremoniously buried at sea. After that, having very casually

reported the capture by wireless, the _Conklin_ made a hawser fast

to the towing-hook at the submarine’s bow, and under orders from the

flagship, set out for Queenstown.

“Huh,” said Pete that night, “I guess the _Conyngham_ ain’t got

anything on us, Kid! This prize we got’s a regular boat, an’ a mine

layer at that. As our Limie friends say, ‘Wot price mine layer?’

Only they’d say ‘lyer’ instead of ‘layer,’ wouldn’t they? Guess the

_Conklin’s_ pretty bad, ain’t she? Guess she don’t do much for her

country, eh? Two prizes in a week ain’t anything to be proud of, is it?

Say, Pickle, take a slant overside an’ see if the Hun’s still in tow.

I wouldn’t want to lose her after the trouble she’s cost me.”

“You, you flat-foot! What did you have to do with it?” asked Dill.

“What did I have to――Say, didn’t you know that I had the little old

Number 5 trained right on the geometricous center of that tin fish? If

it hadn’t been for me those bloody-minded murderers would have killed

you an’ all the rest of your boardin’ party! What did I do, says he!

Huh!”

“Maybe you’ll begin to believe that there are such things as German

submarines after all, Pete,” suggested Dave.

“Sure! I always did believe it. Only I say there ain’t so many as folks

think. Why, look here, now, don’t what happened yesterday and to-day

prove it? When we seen that submarine the second time every one thought

she was a new one, didn’t they? Same thing this mornin’. I heard you

fellers sayin’ ‘Gee, but that’s funny! Three in two days!’ Well, she

was the same little Hun all the time, wasn’t she? Just followed us

around she did. That’s what I was sayin’ the other day. Folks see the

same sub twice an’ put it down for two!”

“You win,” laughed The Pickle. “What gets me, though, is how they

managed to follow us last night in the dark.”

“I don’t believe they did,” replied Dave. “They knew we were on patrol

and all they had to do was wait for us to come back on the next course.”

“That’s it, I guess. Well, anyway, it’s a queer business. What do you

suppose will happen to those poor hoboes?”

“They’d ought to be shot at sunrise,” answered Pete, unfeelingly, “but

they won’t be. They’ll be put in a nice, steam-heated prison camp an’

took care of till the row’s over. I don’t know as I blame ’em a whole

lot for killin’ off the officers, if the officers were like what you

hear tales of, but I don’t just admire ’em for it.”

“The Old Man got a fine lot of papers and books and truck like that,”

said The Pickle reflectively. “He was as pleased as Punch about it and

he and the executive are up in the ward room now having a lovely time

with them. We got a copy of their secret code and a lot of interesting

stuff. Looks to me as if the Old Man would find himself in about right

with the Admiral pretty soon. Wait till we get ashore and rub it into

the _Wood_ crowd.”

Pete chuckled. “Yeah,” he said. “Wait till I tell Quinn, that

slant-eyed, lantern-jawed cox o’ theirs. Maybe it won’t take the wind

out of his sails.”

“It would be funny, though, wouldn’t it,” suggested Dave, “if the

_Wood_ got back there with a sub, too.”

Pete observed him disapprovingly and The Pickle with sorrow.

“Gee, you can think of more punk things to say, Kid,” remonstrated the

latter. “Gloom must be your middle name.”

The _Conklin_ glided into harbor the next morning very proudly and

towed her grim, gray prize fairly under the noses of five American and

one British destroyer before she came to anchor. On the main deck every

gob who could get there stood negligently and boredly as congratulatory

messages came from the bridges of the other ships. Their attitude asked

plainly: “Why so much turmoil about a mere U-boat? It’s an old story

with us.”

That attitude vexed the _Plaisted’s_ gobs and they made derogatory

remarks in voices inaudible to the bridge, but heard on the _Conklin’s_

deck, and gestured derision. “Where’d you get the old cook stove,

_Conk_?”

“What’s that you’re towin’, partner? Some new kind of patent log?” “Did

the Kaiser make you a present of it?” “Say, fellers, see what the cat’s

brought in.” But the _Conklin_ men only smiled in serene contempt. They

could afford to let the envious world gibe.

The _Wood_ wasn’t in port when the _Conklin_ arrived, and so Pete had

to wait two days for the pleasure of crowing over Coxswain Quinn. But

perhaps it was worth waiting for, for if Pete’s condition when he

returned to the ship that afternoon was any sign he must have had a

thoroughly good time. He seemed very desirous of avoiding the gaze of

the officer of the deck and plunged below so rapidly that he scraped

some of the skin from his ribs. But a little more lost skin was of

small moment to one who had already parted with so much! In short,

Pete was a cheerful wreck, and raw beef secured from the galley and

much plaster from his first aid kit failed to make him more than half

presentable. But no questions were asked by the executive, and the

Old Man, catching a glimpse of Pete the next morning from the bridge

ladder, only smiled and went on up. It was by that time generally

known throughout the ship that the _Wood_ would be short the services

of a coxswain for one or two days. Neither Dave nor The Pickle were

witnesses of that encounter, but those who were feelingly pronounced it

the best battle of the war up to date!

The _Conklin_ spent one more day of idleness and then pulled up her

hooks and set forth again for her mission of “making the world safe for

the democrats,” as Pete phrased it. But this time it was not patrol

duty that called her. “Special and distant service” was the word that

went around below deck.

CHAPTER VII

THE START OF AN ADVENTURE

The _Conklin_ left Queenstown just at dusk and steamed straight across

the mouth of the channel, and at daybreak was skirting the tip of the

Cornish coast, with the Scilly Islands faint blurs to the westward.

Later they passed Lizard Head in a sea so smooth that it was hard to

believe the tales they had heard all their lives of the treacherous

nature of that coast. The frowning cliffs of Cornwall were in plain

sight for an hour, and then the tall white tower of Eddystone Light

rose off the port bow. The Pickle, who seemed for some reason to be

a walking compendium of lighthouse information, entertained Dave and

Pete with the story of the Admiralty’s attempts, dating back nearly

a hundred and fifty years, to build a beacon on that sinister reef

which, some ten miles from the nearest point of the mainland, stretches

for hundreds of yards across the ship thoroughfare and obstructs the

approach to Plymouth from the channel side. Many vessels have struck

there. At one point the submerged ridge throws a few battered granite

rocks above the eddying waves at low tide, from which fact came the

name of “eddystones.”

“Away back at the beginning of things,” said The Pickle, gazing across

at the slender tower, “a man whose name I forget got the notion that

there ought to be a light on that reef and that he was the Johnny to

put it there. So they told him to go ahead. Well, he stuck up a queer

Chinese pagoda effect of wood and slathered it all over with carvings

and gilt. Maybe his idea was to scare the waves away. Anyway, they say

it was a fearsome looking contraption when it was done. It took him

three or four years to do it, and when he had the wise guys around here

said it wouldn’t stand the first hard gale. But this Johnny said he

knew better and that he hoped he might be in the tower when that gale

arrived. Every one gets his wish once in a lifetime, and it was this

fellow’s turn to get his. When the gale did come he and five keepers

were out there in the pagoda. When the folks in Plymouth looked out

the next morning to see how the beacon had got through the storm there

wasn’t any beacon.”

“Gee!” said Pete. “Did they drown?”

“So they suppose. Anyway, they weren’t around. After that another

wooden tower went up and stayed quite a while; forty years, I think

it was. It was built so well that it might be there yet if it hadn’t

caught on fire from the lantern one day and burned down. They had

trouble in building it that time because England and France were

at war, and the French privateers kept them on the jump. One time

a French boat caught them napping and took off the whole force as

prisoners of war and carried them back to France. But when the king

heard of it――Louis the Somethingth, I guess――he got peeved with the

smart Alecks. ‘What those guys were doing was for our benefit as well

as England’s. I’m at war with the perfidious Albion’――or words to

that effect――‘but not with humanity.’ After which he handed himself a

round of applause, had the smart Alecks put in the stocks and sent the

lighthouse folks back to their little ledge with a lot of presents.”

“What sort of presents?” asked Dave.

“I don’t know; a couple of gold chains and a bag of ducats and a

package of ‘fags,’ maybe; the usual thing. Read your history and find

out. That was number two lighthouse. Number three was of stone and

stood up about a hundred and twenty-five years. Then the cement began

to go west and they put up the present light alongside it. This one is

a hundred and thirty feet from base to light. Anything else I can tell

you about lighthouses?”

“Yeah,” said Pete, “you can tell me how much lighthouse keeping costs

in England compared with light housekeeping in New York.”

“New York? Lighthouse keep―― Oh, I get you, Pete! And that’ll be about

all from you, son!”

Soon after they entered the English Channel, and during the day,

keeping well in toward the English coast, passed numerous points of

interest which, unfortunately, were too far distant to be more than

faintly descried. Their course did, however, lead them close to the

Isle of Wight and the entrance to Portsmouth Harbor. Pete made The

Pickle’s life something of a burden to him by demanding information

about every little lighthouse or beacon that they glimpsed. But if

they saw little of the southern coast of England they saw a lot of the

English navy in the shape of mine sweepers and layers, naval tugs,

patrols, torpedo boats, destroyers, and cruisers. And once, off the

Bill of Portland, they passed within a half mile of a super-dreadnought

steaming sedately down channel, a huge and wicked-looking sea mammoth

indeed.

There was a deal of speculation as to the _Conklin’s_ mission and

destination and all sorts of guesses were made. The favorite one was

that they were to rendezvous with a part of their own or the British

fleet and make an attack on one of the German naval bases in the North

Sea. Consequently, when, at dawn, they found the destroyer snugly

anchored in the Thames estuary, with Taynham on one side and Sheppy

Island on the other, they were a disappointed lot. Only the fact that

London lay but forty miles distant by railway and the rumor that they

were to stay where they were for several days, brought comfort. Nearby

a group of small tugs and big launches were huddled around a stone quay

from which a very busy signal station stuck up like a sore thumb. Now

and then a tug or launch would put hurriedly away toward the sea, or a

bevy of them would start off on some mysterious but evidently vastly

important mission. There was no liberty for the destroyer’s gobs that

day and they spent a rather bored time watching the various craft

coming and going past the point of the island. The next morning they

went on up to Chatham, where there was a considerable British naval

base, and snuggled up to a dock, alongside a small black cruiser. Then

it was made known that the _Conklin_ would remain at Chatham for two

days and liberty was granted for thirty-six hours. Many took advantage

of that to make the trip to London, and Dave and Pete were all for

joining the party until they learned that The Pickle had other plans.

“You fellows go along,” said Dill. “It wouldn’t be much fun for me.

I’ve seen the old town twice and, besides, I’m pretty nearly broke, and

it costs like thunder to stay around London even over night.”

“Hadn’t thought of that,” mused Pete. “I’m about stoney myself. How

about you, Kid?”

“I can lend you a couple of dollars,” answered Dave. “Bob, too, if he

will come. But I’m not horribly rich just now.”

“Maybe we’ll have another chance to see the place,” said Pete. “It

wouldn’t be much fun without plenty o’ ‘berries.’ Ain’t there some

other place around here?”

“Come with me,” said The Pickle. “I’ve got some English friends at a

little town called Gradford, about forty or fifty miles from here in

Sussex. I suppose they’re still there, because English folks never move

the way we do, and they’d be mighty glad to see you fellows. What do

you say?”

Pete looked dubious. “I ain’t much on the society game, Pickle,” he

replied. “Better leave me out, I guess.”

“Nonsense, the Wylies are just nice plain folks and you’d like them

immensely. We met them in Switzerland one year and they stayed with us

at Westport a couple of weeks summer before last. They made me promise

to visit them the first time I was in England.”

“Yeah, an’ bring all your friends,” said Pete sarcastically. “I guess

they’d be awfully chawmed, what? Say, you piece o’ gear, don’t you

know folks in this country can’t get enough to eat themselves, without

feedin’ three hungry gobs?”

“Oh, I guess it isn’t that bad,” laughed The Pickle. “English folks

always have plenty of parsnips on hand.”

“Parsnips. Gee, I never could eat parsnips. You and the Kid take a

chance. I’m off of it.”

“No, you’re not. Listen, Pete. I asked a chap on the cruiser about

Gradford and he says there’s a train at eleven as far as Rochester.

Then you change and go to Maidstone, and from there to――I think it was

Turnbridge he said. Anyway, you change again there and go right on to

Gradford.”

“Well, it would be a change, all right,” chuckled Pete. “How long does

all this take you? Would you get there to-day or to-morrow?”

“About four this afternoon, he thought.”

“Gee, forty miles in five hours! I’d be afraid to travel as fast as

that.”

“I guess the connections aren’t very close,” explained The Pickle.

“Come on! Be a sport, Pete! You’ll go, Kid?”

“I’d love it, but――it seems sort of cheeky, doesn’t it, Bob? Would we

stay overnight?”

“Sure! They’d be tickled to death to have us. There’s only Mr. and Mrs.

Wylie and a kid son and a girl about ten. Nice folks, fellows. You’ll

like them. Go on and get into your dress togs and pretty yourselves up.

I’ll find out about the liberty boat.”

“Yeah,” answered Pete. “I’ll be so pretty you won’t know me. Got any

freckle lotion, Kid?”

At nine-thirty they were dumped on shore, with an hour and a half

to wait before their train left. That, however, didn’t bother them.

Chatham proved a busy town and they found much to interest them. Not

long before a German air raid had passed over the little city, leaving

death and devastation in its wake, and their wanderings led them to

the marine barracks now in process of reconstruction, which had been

bombed with a loss of over a hundred lives. Pete had a good deal to

say on the subject of that particular kind of warfare, but, while not

uninteresting, it was too emphatic to bear repetition. Their train

crawled out of the station at 11 and they found themselves in a crowded

third-class carriage. English railway travel was novel to both Dave and

Pete, and their frank conversations amused The Pickle all the way to

Rochester. Here they found that they were in for an hour’s wait for the

next train, which was to take them as far as Maidstone. A communicative

official explained that in pre-war times they would have gone right

through, but that nowadays travel was “fair disrupted.” But they were

all in holiday mood and didn’t mind the delay. Rochester appeared a

quiet place after Chatham, but they explored so much of it as was not

too far from the station and found plenty to see. The Maidstone train

was late in leaving and it was one-thirty when they again changed. The

station buffet supplied them with luncheon and at two-twelve they were

on their way once more. There was one more change and one more wait,

and finally, at just before five o’clock, they descended at a tiny

station which the guard assured them was Gradford.

There was so little in sight from the platform save scenery that Pete

cast a longing look after the disappearing train. An elderly man, who

appeared to combine the duties of station agent, baggage agent and

porter, listened to their inquiry with a hand cupped behind one ear.

Then, in silence, he led them to the back of the station and pointed to

a country road that went winding off toward the west.

“It be a matter o’ five mile,” he informed them. “Keep to that road

till ’e come to another. Pay no heed to that, sirs, but keep straight

along till ’e comes to a bridge. That be Gradbridge. The Wylies’ place

be a mile beyond. Best ask your way, sirs, if so be you meet folks.”

“Five miles,” demurred The Pickle. “How about a carriage――I mean a

trap?”

But the man shook his head, looking, Dave thought, a trifle

disapproving. It appeared that there were no traps to be hired

thereabouts and that the telephone was not yet in general use in that

part of England. Ultimately they set off afoot. After all, as Dave

pointed out, five miles wasn’t much of a walk for three husky “gobs,”

and probably they’d reach their destination in plenty of time for

dinner. Pete, however, showed scant enthusiasm and had a good deal to

say about missing “ahfternoon tea.” Missing his tea, it seemed, always

upset him frightfully.

It wasn’t a bad road, and it was certainly picturesque until, after a

mile or so, it began to run between high banks that quite cut off any

view. The evening was still and warm and a light mist hung over the

countryside and they walked on into an amber glow from the setting

sun. A forest gave them cooler air and they sat down by the way for a

while and rested. So far they had met no one and when, presently, a

two-wheeled cart rattled into sight it was quite a momentous event.

“Guess we’d better ask if we’re right so far,” said The Pickle, and

got to his feet. But in spite of his very evident wish to speak, the

occupant of the cart, a heavy, dark-complexioned man with a long brown

coat, applied the whip to the horse and dashed by them without drawing

rein. A dozen yards beyond he glanced back over his shoulder and there

was unmistakable alarm on his face.

The Pickle laughed. “Bet you a dollar, fellows, he thinks we’re

Germans! Guess he never saw an American gob before in his life. If you

had turned your back, Pete, he might have stopped.”

“If I looked as much like a Hun as you do,” replied Pete, “I’d drown

myself. Come on an’ let’s get this over. I never could go parsnips

before, Pickle, but these friends o’ yours won’t have half enough for

me to-night!”

They found the branching road and, following directions, let it

severely alone. There was a prosperous looking farm house a quarter of

a mile back from the junction of the ways, approached by a long, narrow

lane between head-high hedges. Dave was for going there and negotiating

for refreshments, but, as The Pickle pointed out, it was just so much

farther to walk. A dog barked at them from half-way up the lane, and

insects――crickets, Dave said they were――were busy along the roadside.

And once a far-off locomotive whistled shrilly. For the rest, it was a

strangely, almost oppressively quiet world they traveled. At last they

reached the bridge, which was a small affair of stone and timbers over

what looked like a fair-sized brook. The Pickle, however, remembered

that the Wylies had frequently spoken of the River Grad and he guessed

this was it.

“River, eh?” scoffed Pete. “Then you wait a minute.”

“Where are you going?” Dave asked.

“Goin’ to jump it,” was the reply as Pete clambered down a bank. “First

time I ever found a river I could jump across.”

They dissuaded him from the attempt, pointing out that he couldn’t

possibly do it in less than two and that the first jump would leave

him awfully wet. A little further on――they were traversing an expanse

of rolling country interspersed with copse and hedge-lined lanes that

seemed to Dave typically English――the road branched. There was a

signpost there, but the words were almost obliterated and the early

twilight was scant aid to vision. While they hesitated a boy of perhaps

fourteen appeared mysteriously through a hedge and stopped stock-still

to regard them with amazement and curiosity.

“Hello, sonny,” said The Pickle. “Where do the Wylies live?”

The youth shook himself from his trance with an effort and said “Eh?”

The Pickle repeated the question and the boy shook his head.

“Come on, kid! Have a heart!” said Pete. “Don’t you live around here?”

“Ay, over there.” He pointed indefinitely toward the hedge.

“Then you must know the Wylies’ place?”

“Ay.” He seemed a most laconic youth.

“Fine! Where is it, then?”

“’Tis on this road, sir. ’E can’t miss it. It be a largeish house.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” asked The Pickle.

“’E asked me where they live.”

“Sure. They live in the house, don’t they? Why couldn’t you say so?”

The boy only stared, however. Possibly, they thought, the logic was

too much for him, but later they recalled his silence with better

understanding After they had progressed some fifty yards along the

indicated road Dave glanced back. The boy was following them at a

distance. Finding himself observed, however, he slipped from sight.

“He, too,” thought Dave, “believes we’re Germans!”

Ten minutes more brought them to the “largeish” house. It stood well

back from the road, a stone residence that thoroughly deserved the

boy’s description. Although only two stories in height, it covered much

ground. It was a most attractive looking house, or would have been save

for a certain aspect that brought a perplexed frown to The Pickle’s

heated brow. They gazed at it in silence for a moment across the top of

a low, well-trimmed hedge. Then Pete said:

“It don’t look quite right to me, Pickle. It looks――looks――”

“Nobody home,” murmured Dave.

“By jove, it looks like it,” muttered The Pickle uneasily. “What a sell

if it’s so!”

Pete viewed him disgustedly. “What about those parsnips?” he demanded.

“Well, let’s find out,” suggested Dave. “No use spending the night

here.”

They set their feet on a graveled drive and passed between clumps of

shrubbery toward the entrance. No light showed, although it was now

dark enough to demand lights indoors, and there was something very

inhospitable about the tightly-closed portal ahead. The Pickle mounted

four wide stone steps and laid hold of an old-fashioned bell-pull.

Somewhere distantly and faintly, a bell tinkled. They waited. The

Pickle rang again. After that he knocked. And still later they made a

circuit of the house and demanded admittance at two other doors with no

better success. Then, standing on a moss-grown brick walk at one end of

the house, they viewed its many darkened windows and its chimney-pots

clustering against the twilight sky in despondent silence until Pete,

with a world of sarcasm in his voice, observed briefly:

“Parsnips! Huh!”

CHAPTER VIII

THE AIR RAIDERS

Half an hour later they were tramping back again through the long

English twilight, just able to make out the road ahead. They had sat

despondently for a while on the stone steps of the deserted house and

rested, a somewhat silent trio, while the daylight faded slowly and the

coolness of evening settled over them. At last The Pickle had looked

into a leather pocketbook and selected a small piece of cardboard

bearing the inscription, “Mr. Robert Dunham Dill.” Borrowing a pencil

from Dave, he had added the names of his companions to his and then,

with a ceremonious bow, slipped the card beneath the front door.

Pete had watched the proceeding ironically, and when The Pickle had

remarked: “At least they’ll know we called,” he observed: “Huh! I know

a better way to show ’em: Bust a window!”

Their plan was to find that farmhouse they had seen, or, failing that,

some other house, and get something to eat. Their luncheon had been

scanty and they were terrifically hungry. Whether the farmhouse was

this side or beyond the bridge no one was certain. Dave said beyond,

The Pickle said this side and Pete refused to commit himself. The

darkness increased slowly, but by the time they had been walking a

quarter of an hour night was fully on them. Dave said there ought to be

a moon, but there wasn’t, and meanwhile the low-lying mist increased

the blackness of a cloudy, starless night. They stumbled on, keeping to

the road by instinct rather than sight. The bridge and the river that

Peter had wanted to jump were a long time in coming, and they had begun

to trouble about the fact when they heard the gurgle of water ahead.

They crossed the bridge and had gone some distance beyond when The

Pickle observed worriedly:

“Does this road seem right to you fellows?”

“Yeah, why not?” asked Pete.

“Well, somehow it doesn’t seem to be going in the right direction. And

it seems rougher than when we came the other way.”

“Now that you mention it,” said Dave, “it does seem rougher. And

narrower, too. I was almost in a ditch a minute ago.”

“There wasn’t but one road,” Pete reassured them, “so this must be it.

It’s a punk old road, but I guess it’s the right one.”

“There were some lanes,” said The Pickle doubtfully. “We might have

got shunted off into one of them. Wait a minute, fellows. Let’s see

what it looks like.” The Pickle lighted a match and tried to view the

surroundings by its weak radiance, but the result was disappointing,

and Pete impatiently bade him come on.

“Let’s find that farmhouse an’ get some chow,” he said. “You chaps may

look at scenery if you like, but I’m just about starved to death.”

“Folks in dear old rural England go to bed a bit early, I fancy,” said

The Pickle presently, “and maybe the lights’ll be out and we won’t be

able to see it.”

“Bet you I’ll be able to smell it!” answered Pete. “If there’s food

within a mile I’ll know it.”

A minute or two later Dave said: “Hark, fellows! What’s that noise?”

They stopped and listened. Then: “Sounds like waves!” exclaimed The

Pickle. “Great Scott, we must be miles out of our way! We’re going

toward the coast!”

Followed a dismal silence. Then Pete remarked with forced

cheerfulness: “Fine! You can always find something to eat along the

shore.”

“Pete,” said Dave earnestly, “if you spring that old one about the

‘sandwiches there’ I’ll kill you.”

“Wasn’t going to. I was thinking of clams.”

“What do you say?” asked The Pickle, dubiously. “Shall we go back or go

ahead?”

“Ahead,” said Pete. “We’ll light a bonfire and maybe a boat’ll come and

rescue us.”

“I think we might as well go on,” agreed Dave. “There’s likely to be a

village along the shore, don’t you think?”

“I used to think that you found a village every half mile in England,”

replied The Pickle sadly, “but we seem to have stumbled on the one part

of the country where nobody lives.”

“Maybe it’s malarial,” suggested Pete. “I ain’t found any mosquitoes,

though. Oh, come ahead, fellows. I’m getting used to it now. I’m

beginning to enjoy it. I could walk forever.”

“You’re getting light-headed for want of food,” said Dave, as they went

on. “And speaking of food, I’d give anything for a drink of water.”

“So would I,” said The Pickle. “If you hear anything like a brook sing

out.”

But all they heard was the subdued sound of the waves. They were

climbing a hill now and it lasted for a long time. They stopped to

recover their breath and then went on again, and suddenly the beat and

swish of the waves was louder and lights twinkled in the blackness and

a rush of cooler air from the Channel smote them. They seemed to be on

top of a hill, with the ocean a scant distance below. As they paused to

peer into the darkness and speculate on the twinkling lights the moon

peered for a moment from behind a cloud bank eastward and the scene was

revealed.

Before them the road went winding abruptly down to a curving beach,

two or three hundred yards distant. On either side stretched rolling

moorland. The lights were from beacons or ships, all very far away

across the water. To the right a lighthouse shot intermittent white

beams athwart the sea. Then the moon slipped behind a cloud and they

were again plunged in darkness.

“Well, I don’t know where we are,” said Pete, philosophically, “but I’m

glad we’re here. See that reddish light over there? Well, that’s an

all-night lunch, fellows, an’ I’m goin’ over to it.”

The Pickle seated himself on the ground and stretched tired limbs.

The others followed the example and for a minute they were silent. The

waves boomed up from the beach and the fresh wind from the Channel blew

in their faces. Finally Dave said: “Now what? We don’t want to stay

here all night, I suppose.”

“I’m going down to dig me some clams,” said Pete. But he didn’t move.

The Pickle sighed and laid himself flat on the turf beside the road.

“Good night,” he murmured. Dave sat and watched the twinkling lights.

Silence fell again. Presently he peered at the dial of his wrist watch.

The hour was well after nine. Something suspiciously like a snore came

from the darkness where The Pickle reposed. Dave’s head nodded....

Perhaps he slept for a moment, perhaps for many minutes. He didn’t

know. He awoke with the sound of a gun in his ears and felt the earth

tremble slightly beneath him. Eastward a long shaft of intensely white

light bored into the heavens from some distant headland. Again the

gun boomed. That, too, was to the east, perhaps three miles away.

Perplexedly Dave’s gaze followed the broadening shaft of light, and

the next instant the searchlight focused itself on the dim shape of an

airplane high up in the heavens. Then a second shadowy shape passed

into its field of radiance, and a third. The shaft of light moved

jerkily, back and forth across the night sky, at every jump revealing

a tiny winged form against the clouds. The gun was firing hysterically

now at intervals of a few seconds, or possibly a second gun had joined

in. From the blackness behind Dave came The Pickle’s voice:

“An air raid,” it said. “And coming this way, fellows. They’re not more

than a couple of miles off, I guess.”

“Any one seen a cellar around here?” asked Pete. “Say, those aren’t

Zeppelins, are they?”

“No, bombing planes, I’d say,” replied The Pickle. “Look at the

searchlights behind us, fellows.”

Toward the interior shafts of light were springing up from the earth,

sweeping inquiringly hither and thither, waving, crossing in a

wonderful display. The radiance shed a pale glow over the world, a glow

that pulsed, waxing and waning as the light beams swung questioningly

about. The raiders were almost overhead now, or so it seemed, and the

watchers could see the shells from the anti-aircraft guns bursting

below them. The humming of the motors became faintly audible. The

first searchlight had settled fairly on one plane and clung to it

inexorably as it passed above the shore line. Under the white glare the

plane looked like a yellow-gray dragon-fly in the far heights. That

the shells were reaching the enemy seemed doubtful, for the latter

flew straight on Londonward, perhaps nine in all. Inland, other guns

joined the stabbing chorus and soon the firing from the coast toward

the east ended. The humming whirr of the engines died away and the

nearest searchlight swung slowly across the heavens, swept back and

forth watchfully toward the south for a minute and went out. Northward

the distant guns drummed incessantly, but gradually silence returned to

the hill where the boys stood. They could no longer make out the faint

specks speeding toward the great city, and the distant searchlights,

following the foe, withdrew their radiance from the coast. Pete drew a

long breath.

“Gee, I wouldn’t have missed that for anything!” he murmured. “It was

wonderful!”

“Do you think they’ll get as far as London?” asked Dave.

“I wouldn’t think so, judging from the reception they’re getting,”

answered The Pickle dryly. “More than likely they’ll be coming back

pretty soon, but I guess they’ll choose another course. How many――”

He ceased abruptly and wheeled in the darkness. Then, simultaneously

with his companions, he threw himself to the ground as, out of the

gloom of the night, something vast shot close overhead. They felt the

silent rush of it, the wind of its flight on their faces. It was like

some huge bird skimming close to earth. They saw it, but only as one

sees uncertainly a darker object in the dark, and then it was gone. But

from some distance away came a crackling of bushes where the moorland

rolled westward from the road and with it a sharp snap as of breaking

wood.

Dave found his fingers clutching The Pickle’s arm. Close beside him

Pete was breathing hard. They stood there for a long moment with

straining eyes and ears intent. Then, faint but unmistakably, came the

sound of a human voice. It spoke cautiously and the words didn’t reach

them, but it told them one thing beyond the shadow of a doubt, and

Dave’s fingers tightened on The Pickle’s arm.

“Germans!” he whispered.

CHAPTER IX

PRISONERS OF WAR

Kneeling beside the road there, with heads close together, they laid

their plans.

“There’ll be two of them,” said The Pickle, “and they’ll be armed. And

we aren’t. I’d give a hundred dollars for an automatic right now, but

never mind. What we’ve got to do is to get near enough to rush them

before they can draw. That oughtn’t to be difficult, because they’ll be

trying to fix the machine. We won’t try it yet, though. Let them alone

for a few minutes. They’ll be suspicious and watchful at first because

they’re probably not sure whether any one’s about. If nothing happens

for a while they’ll conclude that they’re safe.”

“What did they land here for?” asked Pete in whispers.

“Had no choice, probably. Engine went wrong or something like that, I

guess. They must have fallen behind the others and probably volplaned

the first chance they got after sighting land. When they came down

they smashed something. You heard it. Maybe a wing. Anyway, it will

keep them longer. Now what about weapons?”

“What do you mean, weapons?” asked Pete. “I got mine with me, one on

each arm.”

The Pickle and Dave smiled in the darkness. “All right,” agreed the

former. “That suits me. It would be hard to find clubs or anything,

anyway. My idea, fellows, is to go at them from three sides, but first

of all we’ve got to locate them. If they’re in bushes we’ll have our

troubles, for the pesky things’ll crackle.”

“Yes, and if the moon comes out again,” murmured Dave anxiously, “we’ll

have more trouble.”

“I don’t think it will.” The Pickle was silent a moment, listening.

Pete stirred uneasily.

“If we wait too long they may get away from us,” he objected.

“All right. Come on, then. We’d better lie flat when we get near them

and crawl. Keep down now and don’t make a sound.”

Crouching, testing each step before they made it, the three crept back

along the road, which was hardly more than a rutted path thereabouts.

Gradually the voices of the airmen grew plainer in the stillness,

although they never spoke loudly. Nor did they waste many words. With

the voices came the sounds accompanying the unseen task, the soft,

harsh rub of metal against metal and, once, the sharp ring of a tool.

The plane had probably landed on the edge of the road, which might have

been dimly discernible from above, and had “taxied” diagonally off

onto the moor for a distance of twenty or thirty yards, its progress

doubtless impeded by the low bushes.

Having reached a position on the road opposite the enemy, the boys

paused. At that instant a tiny light stabbed the darkness across the

intervening space and while it glowed the boys made out the position

of the plane and saw the forms of two leather-clad men beside the

nearer of the two outstretched wings. They appeared to be examining the

damage sustained in landing and did much muttering as the little pocket

flashlight was moved back and forth, shining through the varnished

texture of the wing like a candle in a yellow Chinese lantern. The

shadows of the airmen swayed black and monstrous across the ground.

Then the light went out.

The boys, who had hugged the earth closely and with bated breath, now

eased their positions and whispered softly again. Presently, had the

two visitors from across the water been less absorbed in the task

before them they might have heard faint sounds in the surrounding

blackness not attributable to the breeze amongst the gorse. And

then they might not have, for, after all, those sounds were loudest

to those who caused them and might easily have gone unnoted by the

airmen. Fortunately for the attackers the higher bushes were scattered

and could be avoided, while the gorse was still green enough to bend

beneath their weight without crackling. Ten breathless minutes passed

slowly while the three boys, crawling like snakes, gained their

positions. To Pete had fallen the most difficult task, that of circling

the scene and approaching it from the farther side, and Dave and The

Pickle were ready long before their illuminated watch dials told them

that the time allowed for Pete’s detour was up.

Followed a few seconds of suspense.

Then from three different points of the compass came the patter of

running feet, and the Germans snatched for their weapons and wheeled

in alarm. Only their ears could aid them, for no eye could penetrate

that darkness. To shoot at random would have been idle, and so, for

just those few seconds that meant so much to the attackers the airmen

hesitated, and that hesitation was their undoing. With more time after

the first warning they might have fled safely into the darkness, but

the attack was so sudden, so unexpected that there was no time for

escape. It was only when an unseen form leaped upon him from the night

that one of the Germans fired. There was a flash of orange light and

the bullet went whistling past the assailant. Then the German’s head

jerked back as a fist caught him on the point of the chin and that

single flash of his revolver was multiplied a hundred times to his

vision. He stumbled backward against the slanted wing of the airplane

with a grunt, hung there an instant and slipped to the ground. And then

Pete was on him.

A yard or more away the other German was giving a better account of

himself, for, with Dave and The Pickle both engaging him, he was

holding them off after a fashion. Dave was clinging to a hand that

held a revolver and trying to get an arm around the German’s neck to

pull him to earth, while The Pickle, fighting blindly, stumbling and

tripping, was fearful of striking friend instead of foe. The German

didn’t fight silently. He growled like an enraged dog, and the things

he said would not look well if set down here in English. Being in

German, they sounded horribly enough, but conveyed no meaning. Finally

The Pickle found his bearings and, ducking under the flail-like blows

of their antagonist, wrapped his arms about a heavy form, heaved,

swayed, and then went crashing to the ground. Confusion reigned supreme

for an instant, for the enemy and Dave and The Pickle were badly

mixed up, but Dave managed to roll clear, the revolver at last in

his possession, and The Pickle ended the struggle with a single blow

against the temple of the man beneath him.

That brought a short, sharp engagement to a close. Two more or

less unconscious Germans lay inert on the ground when Pete, having

discovered the flashlight in a pocket of one of the two, illuminated

the scene. A sailor’s yard-square neckerchief has many uses, and

to-night three of them did excellent duty. With two they tied the hands

of the captured Germans behind them and with the other trussed up one

pair of feet. Two white handkerchiefs, knotted together, sufficed for

the second pair. Then, out of breath, slightly bruised, but triumphant,

they took stock of their victory.

They had, it appeared, captured a slightly damaged Albatross bombing

airplane, eight small but wicked-looking bombs, certain maps and papers

of uncertain value and two perfectly good lieutenants of the German

Flying Corps. They were perfectly good by reason of the fact that one

was quite unconscious and that both were securely tied. The one who was

not unconscious was doing much groaning as the boys returned from their

inspection of the plane, but was not yet articulate. Seating themselves

on the edge of the wing, the boys faced their next problem, which was,

briefly: What next?

It dawned on them then that being in possession of an enemy airplane

and in charge of two prisoners of war several miles from the nearest

settlement and with no notion in which direction that settlement lay

was a trifle awkward. And it was not until they had discussed the

problem for a good ten minutes that Dave remembered the maps taken from

the prisoners. By the light of the invaluable flashlight they examined

them and to their joy discovered one to be a very detailed map of the

southeastern counties, showing not only roads, railways, streams and

towns but even detached houses and footpaths! The comprehensiveness of

it fairly staggered them. By finding the Gradford station and then the

road they had traversed to the Wylies’ residence they were soon able to

discover their present whereabouts and learn that by following a path

along the shore they could reach the town of Alburnham in something

under three-quarters of an hour, since the distance, after The Pickle

had translated kilometers into miles, appeared to be just under three

of the latter. And with the flashlight to aid there seemed no reason

why the adventure should not be comfortably terminated in a couple of

hours. It would not do for all three to make the trip to the village,

and one would serve as well as two, and so very gravely they each

produced a coin and, shaking it in a closed hand, slapped it down on a

knee.

“Odd man goes,” said The Pickle. “Heads!”

“Heads!” echoed Pete.

“Tails!” said Dave. “Give me that torch.”

Not quite two hours later Pete and The Pickle, drowsing at their post,

were aroused to full wakefulness by the chugging of a motor-car coming

up the hill and the dull gleam of its lamps. Then, from the darkness

emerged military and civil authority and Dave Garson, the former very

wide-awake and agog with curiosity and the latter yawning and dull of

eye. The prisoners were placed in the car, the rest followed, there

were many stern questions in English and helpless responses in German,

and the motor shot off down the hill, bumping and swaying over the

rutted road and――every last one of the heroes went to sleep.

Later the car stopped and all got out in the half-gloom of a village

street. The prisoners disappeared through a doorway and a light

appeared at a window. Then some one took Dave by the arm and impelled

him through a second doorway. Pete and The Pickle stumbled sleepily

behind. There was a dimly-lighted room with cots. Some of the cots were

empty. A fussy little corporal in his shirt-sleeves kept talking and

talking, and The Pickle, trying to unfold a gray blanket, got ensnarled

in it and tumbled over a cot and rolled to the floor beyond. And Dave

couldn’t untie one shoe-lacing and so gave it up. Some one said “Good

night, Yank!” Dave had every intention of answering, but the words got

mixed up and his tongue wouldn’t work.

A stout major interrupted them at breakfast the next morning and they

had to tell their story from beginning to end while their tea grew

cold. The major told them to go on with their breakfasts, but how

could they when he kept booming questions at them? Afterward two

photographers enticed them out into the early morning sunlight and

posed them against the gray stone wall of a barracks and took pictures

of them. There was much praise for the boys, and the major in command

presented them each with a souvenir of the adventure, Dave and The

Pickle drawing the revolvers and Pete the pocket flashlight. At nine

they were rolled off to a railway station in a motor ambulance driven

by a young woman in khaki uniform, who got them to write their names

in a little book she kept under the leather cushion of the seat. She

explained that she tried to get the autographs of all distinguished

persons she met, and was proudly exhibiting the signature of Lloyd

George when the train came in and they had to hurry off. Pete spent

much of his time during the first part of the journey in talking about

that ambulance driver.

“When the war’s over I’m goin’ back there,” he said dreamily. “She was

some kid, take it from Pete.”

CHAPTER X

“STAND BY!”

Two days later the _Conklin_ was steaming at twenty knots through the

shallow waters of the North Sea. It’s a vile stretch of ocean in the

best of weather, and the best of weather did not fall to their lot. The

short, sharp waves drenched the decks, and the destroyer rolled and

staggered and shook. Life that day was, in The Pickle’s phraseology,

“nothing to write home about.” Drenched with icy spray, choked with the

fumes of the black oil smoke that hugged the deck, wrapped in mist, the

lookouts were a cold and unhappy lot. No, not unhappy, though, for big

events impended and spirits were high.

Ahead and behind eight other destroyer craft were keeping the _Conklin_

company. Four American and five British ships comprised the little

flotilla that, hidden from each other by the wet and dreary mist, were

speeding eastward toward the enemy’s stronghold. “Heligoland” was the

word on every lip that morning, for, although the bulletin told them

nothing, their destination was no secret. They were off for a raid!

Of late German destroyers and submarines had been far too active

against allied and neutral shipping in the North Sea, and the enemy

must be taught a lesson. And for the teaching nine of the fastest and

most powerful destroyers had been picked from the two navies and had

rendezvoused the day before off The Helder. And now, lithe grayhounds

of the sea, they were darting eastward for their prey.

Heligoland, that grim ocean fortress that stands thirty miles off the

German coast, is to-day a veritable Gibraltar. Fortified at a cost of

$50,000,000, it bristles with eleven-inch guns and forms an impregnable

defense to the German bases behind it, and provides on its southward

side a safe harbor for ships. In clear weather it must be given a wide

berth by the enemy, but when the North Sea fogs close down about it,

even its sharp eyes――giant searchlights that range for miles out to

sea from the summit of the great cliffs――are powerless. And hidden by

mist a destroyer may, if she chooses to dare the mines and nets that

surround the rock, creep close under the guns without detection.

It was still early morning when the attacking ships reached the edge

of the protected area and abandoned formation, for it is in the early

hours of the day that the gray mists are thickest. The plan of the

raid had been prepared beforehand, and now every unit knew its duty.

The _Conklin’s_ nose swung more to the north, in the direction of the

Bight, that twenty-mile channel leading northward from the mouth of

the River Elbe. Once a gray phantom hung on her starboard for a minute

and then was dissolved in the all-encompassing mist. Lookouts strained

their eyes as never before, their life-belts strapped about them. The

engines roared and the seas dashed over the bows, making the decks a

welter of water. Every gun crew was at its station; had been there for

an hour, ever since the order of “Stand by!” had come in the chill

darkness of early dawn.

Eastward a distant gun boomed and was followed by a second. One of the

raiders had come in contact with the enemy. But from the _Conklin_ not

so much as a flash was to be seen. The firing grew continuous, a steady

roar of sound. The _Conklin_ was going more slowly now, for mines lay

about her and the narrow channel she must keep to was winding and

uncertain. A half hour passed. The firing in the distance diminished.

Then a heavier gun spoke, this time more to the north and nearer. The

foretop lookout saw the rosy flare of it a few miles distant. Smaller,

sharper guns barked in answer and a new engagement began. But the

mysterious fog hid it as it hid aught else from the straining eyes on

bridge and deck of the _Conklin_.

At the guns men murmured impatience. Were they to be the only ones

without a bid for glory? What was the Old Man up to? Why didn’t he

plunge across there and get a finger in the pie before it was all gone?

But the Old Man was paying scant heed to the fortunes of the consorts.

His eyes were glued to a chart and his lips never moved save to issue

orders to the helmsman. Slowly but inexorably the destroyer crept on

and on through the mist, her sharp nose twitching this way and that as

the steering cables groaned under deck and the rudder moved from side

to side. Eight knots now, and scarcely seeming to have headway in the

tumbling, leaping seas. From a bow lookout came a warning cry:

“Mine close aport!”

The _Conklin’s_ nose twitched to starboard and the lookout’s hair

stirred under his woolen cap as the floating engine of destruction was

cleared by a few scant yards. Once more a similar warning came, and

again the destroyer swerved aside just in the nick of time. A spotter

amidships on the starboard side swore afterwards that the mine scraped

the _Conklin’s_ plates!

Then telegraphs became busy and the destroyer leaped forward again

through sea and fog. Fifteen knots! Twenty! Twenty-six! A darker shape

emerged from the grayness ahead and to port. The _Conklin_ No. 3 gun

broke the long silence. Somewhere a warning siren screamed eerily.

Then a flare of rose-pink gleamed to port and, as the _Conklin’s_ guns

awoke, a shell screamed overhead. They knew then where they were, and

every heart leaped with the thrill of that knowledge. They had crept

through the mine field, and now they were plunging straight for the

anchored ships in the wide-mouthed harbor, straight under the giant

guns of Heligoland!

It was suicide, and they all knew it, from the Old Man on the bridge

to the last oiler far below the wet, fog-draped deck, and every man of

them gloried in it! Rushing on, firing until the gray shape was lost

in fog, the destroyer kept her course. Other shapes emerged now, ahead

to starboard, aport――shapes small and shapes gigantic, vanishing at the

vagaries of the mist, suddenly looming again. Every gun fired at sight

of a target. The water dashed over the stern as a shell plunged into

the waves. Here and there glares of quick, vivid light broke the gray

wall. The _Conklin_ went on and past, hurling her shells incessantly.

Suddenly, ahead, a big gun spoke from the cliffs. And then another. The

sounds dwarfed all other sounds. The _Conklin_ whirled in a confusion

of churning water and headed seaward again. Fair in her path lay the

grim mystery of a huge cruiser, her funnels and masts high above the

diminutive enemy. Straight on went the _Conklin_――a wasp attacking a

bulldog! The cruiser’s small guns beat a tattoo against the _Conklin’s_

deck and hull. A great shell from the shore batteries howled past. The

destroyer, every funnel spouting smoke, raced past the cruiser so close

that the dim lights behind open ports showed to the gun crews and they

aimed for them. Roaring, firing, cheering, the _Conklin_ blazed her way

by. At the guns men worked in a sweating frenzy, shouting grimly when a

shell went home, laughing as grimly when the enemy got home on them.

Then they were past, and astern a fearful rending of steel and timber

shook the air and a wild uprush of flame and flying débris was visible

for an instant. And then the gray gloom closed in again, hiding the

tragedy!

“Lyddite explosion,” said the Old Man, briefly.

“One cruiser less in the Kaiser’s navy,” exulted the junior.

Below deck, men groaning from wounds heard and forgot their pain. At

the guns they cheered wildly. They were handling ammunition now in the

dark, for the lighting circuit had been broken. But the shells still

came up and the guns still barked――all save No. 4, which would never

speak again. Shot-riddled, one funnel gone, badly gashed forward above

the water line, and dented in fifty places, the _Conklin_ rushed on

into a new danger. As the anchored ships dropped astern a torpedo sped

across the destroyer’s bow. The submarines were in the game at last!

Zig-zagging from side to side, doubtful of the channel, the _Conklin_

raced ahead with every boiler roaring. Behind them the big guns boomed,

dropping shells into that narrow path through which they must steer.

Grimly firing from the stern at the fleeting, shadowy shape of an

enemy destroyer, the _Conklin_ sought escape. Behind her a great gray

battle cruiser was slowly settling beneath the waves and many an enemy

ship was nursing her wounds, and only a miracle, it seemed, could

deliver the _Conklin_ from the enemy’s vengeance.

And yet the moments passed, and the great shells that went moaning into

the sea failed of their mission. If torpedoes were launched from the

skulking U-boats they, too, missed their target. Once, close aboard,

an upheaval of the sea and a dull concussion showed where an anchored

mine had been exploded, perhaps by torpedo, perhaps by shell. The

_Conklin_ held her life in her hands now. Around her lay unseen death,

behind her coursed destroyers and submarines. But it was as the God

of Battles willed it, and the gallant little ship, never slowing her

engines, plunged fearlessly forward, turning and twisting. Sweaty,

smoke-grimed lookouts peered from the bows and shouted hoarse warnings.

On the battered bridge the officers stood tensely and waited. And then,

somehow, she was through the mines and past the nets and the gray mist

was beckoning her to its arms. Back, where the great grim fortress

towered above the sea, the guns boomed and growled with diminishing

fury. And, maimed and scarred, with a toll of dead and dying below the

long, drenched deck, the _Conklin_ sped proudly westward, the Yankee

ensign still fluttering in triumph from the masthead.

THE END

Transcriber’s Notes:

――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

――Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to

follow the text that they illustrate.

――Printer’s, punctuation, and spelling inaccuracies were silently

corrected.

――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.