“Wow! Help! Let me out! I’m suffocating!” yelled Herc, beginning to
regard his imprisonment seriously.
On deck the ensign had the boat crew lined up.
“Get aboard, men, and hurry back to the ship,” he ordered; “we’ve spent
enough time here.”
He thanked the old Yankee skipper for his hospitality, and the
commander of the old convict craft was profuse in his gratitude for the
assistance Uncle Sam’s navy had extended him.
In the meantime, Herc’s absence had been noted. Ned stepped up to the
ensign and, saluting, reported:--
“Taylor is missing, sir.”
“Missing?”
“Yes, sir. He’s not here.”
“Very extraordinary. What can have become of him?”
“I can’t imagine, sir. We were below together when we heard the
whistle, and I only discovered his absence a minute ago.”
“Brick top’s in trouble again,” whispered the boat’s crew.
“I can’t make out how he could vanish on board a small ship like this,”
exclaimed the ensign in a puzzled tone. “Confound that boy, he’s always
getting into some mischief or other.”
“Had we better scatter and look for him, sir?” inquired Ned.
“Yes, do so. Carry on, and be as quick as you can. The commander will
be seriously annoyed if we don’t hurry back on board.”
The men followed Ned below. All sorts of conjectures were made as to
what had become of their ship-mate. In the meantime, Herc was shouting
his head off in the cell and realizing to the full the horrors of
solitary confinement in such a place.
But the door was thick and his voice hardly penetrated outside. It was
by the merest chance that one of the men caught a faint echo of his
yells. He reported to Ned at once and they traced the sounds to the
door.
“Is that you, Herc?” shouted Ned through the door.
“Yes, what’s left of me. Wow! Let me out of here quick, if you ever
want to see me again before I’m melted.”
The skipper of the _Victory_ was summoned and the door was soon opened.
Out came a very red-faced, perspiring Dreadnought Boy.
“Well, you’re a nice specimen,” exclaimed Ned. “How in the world did
you get into such a fix?”
“I just looked in to see what that hole in the wall was like and the
door slammed to on me,” exclaimed Herc. “Gracious, but I’m glad to get
out again. Talk about our brig, why it’s a palace compared to that
cell!”
“And yet men were placed in there for voyages of a hundred days and
more,” said the captain of the _Victory_.
“Hurry up on deck, men,” ordered Ned. “Come along, Herc. I guess your
troubles are only beginning.”
“What do you mean?”
“That you’ll have to go to the mast for disobedience of orders.”
“How could I help it if the door shut on me?”
“You shouldn’t have gone in there after the whistle blew. It was your
duty to go on deck at once.”
“I don’t see that I’m to blame.”
“I guess the captain will take a different view. You’ve held up the
fleet for half an hour.”
“Well, it isn’t every seaman that could do that,” said Herc with a grin
as he fell into line.
Ned was right. On their return to the ship the ensign in charge of the
party got a severe lecture for wasting time, and in order to divert
the blame he informed the captain of Herc’s involuntary imprisonment.
Accordingly, the red-headed lad’s name was down on the list of those
whom the master-at-arms was required to notify to report at the mast
the next day.
As has been explained in other volumes of this series, the “mast” is
in reality the quarter-deck, where every day the captain adjudicates
infractions of naval law and listens to complaints and excuses. The
next afternoon Herc faced this tribunal, cap in hand, and inwardly much
perturbed.
“Taylor, I am informed that your disobedience of orders delayed the
cutter’s return yesterday,” said the captain. “How was that?”
“Well, it was mainly on account of a door, sir,” rejoined Herc.
“Of a door?”
“Yes, sir, a door that I couldn’t open. You see, I was in solitary
confinement----”
“Don’t be flippant, sir,” said the captain sternly; “explain yourself
properly.”
“I am, sir. I was imprisoned on that convict ship, although I had done
nothing but peek into a solitary cell.”
“What are you talking about, sir?” exclaimed the captain, hiding a
smile at Herc’s whimsical way of explaining his predicament. “Tell me
plainly what happened.”
“I’m trying to, sir.”
Herc went on to relate his experiences. When he had concluded, the
captain said:--
“It is plain by your story that you were not prompt to obey orders and
that your imprisonment was your own fault entirely.”
The Dreadnought Boy shifted about uncomfortably. Something dreadful was
going to be done with him, he felt sure.
“However,” went on the commanding officer of the _Manhattan_, “I think
that your period of detention on board that ship has taught you a good
lesson. Carry on.”
“I’m not to be put in the brig, sir?”
The captain had to pass a hand over his face to hide a smile at Herc’s
tone of relief.
“No; not this time. But be warned in the future. Your offense was a
serious one. You delayed the fleet entirely without necessity.”
Herc was received on the forecastle by a group of his cronies. He told
them all that had occurred at his session at “the mast.”
“Good for you, Red Head,” they cried; “you gave the brig a wide berth
this trip, all right.”
The red-headed boy drew himself up quite proudly. Mentally he was
patting himself on the back.
“I guess I must be more important than I thought,” he observed to Ned.
“How’s that, Herc?”
“Why, the commander as good as said that the fleet couldn’t get along
without me. They had to wait for me, didn’t they?”
“See here, Herc, don’t get all puffed up over that. I’m sorry we didn’t
let you stew in there a while longer to take some of the conceit out
of you. You ought to thank your stars that you didn’t get the brig.”
“Pooh!” exclaimed Herc, “the brig would have seemed like a little
Paradise after that solitary cell. As the old man said, ‘I was punished
enough.’”
The bugle for afternoon gunnery practice with the Morris tubes cut
short the boys’ conversation. They hustled to their stations for the
“small caliber” duty on the big guns, which was an almost daily feature
of their work and one that they enjoyed hugely.