The courtroom was a large, cool chamber, protected from the hot sun by
green latticed blinds. The judge proved to be a humorous-faced American
dressed in white ducks. As the boys were marched into the courtroom, a
great hub-bub was set up by a group that they recognized as the party
whose luncheon had been so rudely interrupted by Blue Lightning’s
charge.
“So you lads are from the fleet?” the judge asked, as the boys were
formally arraigned at the bar of justice, which, in this case, was a
plain kitchen table with a big jug of ice-water on it.
“Yes, sir, from the _Manhattan_,” responded Ned respectfully.
“Hum! These people charge you with assault and battery. What have you
to say about it?”
“I guess Blue Lightning could tell you all about it, sir, if he could
talk,” put in Herc, despite Ned’s nudgings to keep silent.
“And who may he be?”
“It isn’t a him, sir. It’s a goat,” explained Herc.
“A goat!”
“Yes, sir, our mascot.”
“Ahem! He doesn’t appear to be much of a mascot if he got you into this
trouble. Since the United States annexed these islands it has been the
aim of the Government to keep friendly relations between the natives
and the Americans.”
“Yes, sir,” said Herc meekly, “but if you will let me explain, I think
I can show that it was an accident. I was trying to save these people
from being butted into the middle of next week, when----”
“That will do, Herc,” exclaimed Ned. “Will you let me explain, sir?”
“Certainly, my lad, go on.”
Ned gave a concise account of all that had happened. Then came the
turn of the natives, who spoke through an interpreter. Their testimony
agreed with Ned’s. The magistrate explained to the boys at the
conclusion of their depositions that the natives said they would be
satisfied with a settlement.
“How much do they want?” asked Ned.
A great pow-wow ensued, and finally the spokesman of the natives said
that two dollars would be ample. It was paid smilingly by the boys, who
were then told that they were free to go.
“And I would advise you to stop your mascot’s shore leave in the
future,” smilingly said the gentleman who officiated as magistrate.
“We will, sir,” declared both boys.
They had some pleasant conversation with the magistrate about the fleet
and its great world cruise, after which it was time to take their
train. They spent the night in Hilo and rejoined the ship the next day.
“Well, lads, did you have an interesting time ashore?” asked the
captain, as he passed them soon after their return.
“Yes, sir,” responded Taylor saluting, “especially at the end of a
rope.”
Of course this called for explanations and Herc told the whole story
with much graphic illustration.
“I see there is no killing you two lads,” laughed the captain as he
walked on, “but in the future be more careful. What ended as a joke
might have had a more serious side.”
* * * * *
Once more the fleet was at sea. Everything was ship-shape and
“man-o’-war fashion,” the days spent at Hilo having been devoted to
putting the big battle fleet in tip-top condition after the buffeting
it had gone through in the big storm. Officers and men were all
a-tip-toe with anticipation at the prospect of the next stop, which was
Yokahama. The Dreadnought Boys particularly were anxious for a sight
of the Flowery Kingdom.
Ned’s duties having called him, one calm, peaceful evening, to the
after part of the ship, he was passing the wireless room on his return
forward when he caught the sound of a message being sent out from the
flag-ship to the rest of the fleet. The boy had been keen to learn
everything connected with his profession, and the study of wireless had
been included in the curriculum he had set himself.
He spent spare moments when he could in the wireless room and under the
operator’s tutelage had become quite a fair hand at the key. He paused
and listened to the dots and dashes as the flame leaped and crackled
between its terminals, sending out into space a message to the long
line of ships behind the _Manhattan_.
Ned listened till the message was complete and then, with sparkling
eyes, he resumed his journey.
“I guess there’s going to be a surprised bunch of blue-jackets on
board before morning,” he said to himself, as he hurried along through
steel-walled corridors and metal-enclosed casements. “I’m glad I caught
that message. Forewarned is forearmed.”
Herc noted his comrade’s suppressed excitement at supper that night
and tried to find out the cause for it, but he was unsuccessful. Ned,
however, could not forbear giving him a hint a little later.
“Sleepy, Herc?” he asked.
“No, but as soon as I get into my downy hammock, it doesn’t take me
long to slip off into dreamland.”
“Well, don’t sleep too soundly to-night.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t tell you. But I’ve got information that something out of the
ordinary may happen.”
“Pshaw! Why can’t you tell me what it is?”
Herc was all on fire with curiosity.
“I’m not at liberty to. I came by my information in a sort of
confidential way.”
“Humph! I suppose the old man asked you into his cabin and gave you all
his plans for the next twenty-four hours.”
The night wore on. Lights gleamed out; watches were set as usual. The
bugle sounded taps and the Jackies were all wrapped in their usual
sound slumbers. Ned alone lay awake waiting for the signal that he was
sure would not be long in coming. On the bridge the captain paced back
and forth and almost all the officers were out, none of them having
retired.
It was past eight bells, midnight, when a sudden voice sounded loud
and sharp above the monotonous vibration of the big propellers.
“Bos’un’s-mate!”
“Aye! aye, sir!” came the voice of Shorty Shea, who had the watch.
“Turn out the crew! Sound stations. Shake a leg now!”
“Aye! aye, sir!”
A shrill screech on his pipe followed as he tumbled forward on his duty.
Presently his voice boomed through the forecastle.
“A-l-l hands on deck! D’ye hear that now? A-l-l hands to s-t-ations!”
Buglers, hastily aroused, began sounding the “assembly!” Instantly the
sleeping ship galvanized into what appeared to be a pandemonium. High
on the masts the red and green “Ardois” lamps were winking and flashing
the signal to the ships. The wireless was fretting and whining. “The
idlers,” cooks, messmen, stewards and boys took their places below
in the magazines. The Jackies tumbled out of hammocks and slipped
into uniforms as if by magic. Officers hastily took their stations.
Questions and conjectures as to the reason for the sudden call flew
thick and fast.
Some thought that there had been a collision; others that the ship had
gone aground; yet others hazarded a guess that fire had broken out.
All knew that some urgent business was on hand and lost no time in
getting on deck.
Ned was at his gun almost before the last notes of the bugle calls had
died out. Herc was not much behind him. The Dreadnought Boy hastily
inspected the shining butt of the big twelve-inch gun that was in his
charge. He patted it smilingly.
“You’ll have to do your best to-night, old girl!” he said.
The captain passed among the men as they took their stations.
“They’ll do,” he remarked to the executive officer with him; “smart
work. A likely lot of lads. They all have themselves well in hand even
though they have no idea what is going to happen.”
“Man magazines and ammunition hoists. Stand ready. Pass loads to the
batteries!” came the sharp orders from the bridge in rapid succession.
High up in the superstructure, the range finders and “spotters” with
telephone receivers clamped to their heads were ready. Down in the
bowels of the ship the men who would transmit their reports of range
and kindred matters to the batteries, sat at what looked like giant
switchboards, covered with winking lights of different colors.
In Ned’s turret, the ammunition hoist came up with a bang and clang.
Bags of powder and a great projectile were unshipped by the gun crew
with what appeared to be magical speed. Every man had his work and knew
just what to do.
“Load and stand by,” ordered the ensign in Ned’s turret. “We’re going
to have some night target practice, my lads. See to it that you do your
best,” he went on.
This was the information that Ned had heard flashed out over the
wireless. The crew of the big twelve-inch gave a cheer. Stripped to the
waist, they awaited the next order.
“Clear decks for action!”
The Jackies outside began stripping the ship of everything movable.
Boats were lowered and cast off astern, railings, stanchions,
everything movable came down and was marked “Overboard.” Some wag even
affixed a label marked in this way to the horns of Blue Lightning, who
was careering around the decks in great excitement.
“Strong, you take the gun.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Have your wits about you. We must hold the record we possess, if it is
possible.”
A bell buzzed and a light flashed twice in the turret. It was the
signal to load. The ensign barked out a sharp command. In a moment the
load and the projectile were sent “home.” The breech was closed with
a snap, the electrical connections made, and Ned, with his hand on
the big wheel that controlled the monster gun as if it had been a toy
rifle, awaited the next order.
Peering out through the turret opening he could see the rays of the
_Manhattan’s_ searchlight sweeping like radiant fingers over the sea.
They were searching for the target which had been sent out from one of
the other ships. The different ships were to steam by it at a set speed
blazing away as they passed.
At last it flashed into view,--a tiny square of white in the far
distance. Ned brought the cross-wires on the telescope sights to bear
on it. His heart beat tumultuously.
“Wish they’d hurry up that range,” said the ensign nervously.
Suddenly a shrill whistle sounded. The officer snatched up the speaking
tube. From the switchboards below came the required information.
“Ten thousand yards. Steady, men.”
Ned’s fingers hovered over the firing device. The other men balanced
themselves on their toes prepared for the shock when the actual moment
for firing the big gun came. Cotton was stuffed in their ears. The
five great searchlights that concentrated on the target showed it as
clearly to Ned as a chalked square on a blackboard. But it looked
terribly small.
A red light on the turret wall winked.
“Now, Strong,” said the ensign. “Fire!”
Ned’s fingers twitched the firing device. It seemed as if an earthquake
had been let loose. Through the night rushed the huge projectile, its
course blazed across the night sky by the red glow of a trailer, a
flaming attachment that enables the “spotters” to follow its course as
accurately as if it were day.
The gun was still trembling from the force of the recoil when the swish
of air-compressors, driving dangerous stray sparks out of it, was
heard. This was done so that there should be absolutely no danger of a
speck of fire remaining when the next charge was rammed home.
The next projectile, well oiled, was jerked into the big gun and rammed
home with clock-work-like precision. Then came the powder bags and the
snap of the breech block as it was slammed to.
The speaking tube whistled once more.
“Hit!” cried the ensign, announcing that he had just got the news that
Ned had hit the target. Then the red light flashed again, and once more
the ship shook to the thunders of the giant forces released when Ned
lightly pressed the trigger.
Again and again was the process gone through. The shots came with the
rapidity of an automatic shot-gun. It seemed incredible almost that
human beings could work with such precision and accuracy. Hardly a word
was spoken. Only short commands and brisk replies were heard.
From the spotters’ roost, where with night glasses they followed the
flaming trailers, came the monotonous report to bridge, switchboard and
turret, “Hit--hit--hit--hit--hit!”
And then finally, as the command came to cease firing the twelve-inch,
was this report:
“Ten shots, ten hits. Time, thirty seconds!”
Then, as the other guns took up the deafening fusillade, all discipline
vanished in Ned’s turret. The ensign shook his hand while the gun-crew
danced around shouting:
“What’s the matter with Ned Strong? He’s all right!”
But the racket of other guns drowned their voices. Up in the tops the
spiteful crash of the little three-inch guns could be heard cracking
viciously. The eight-inch rifles rumbled and roared. It was like being
on a train going through a vast tunnel at sixty miles an hour. That is
about as nearly as the uproar of the vast forces of power released at
gun practice can be described.
Two hours after the signal to “commence firing” had been given, the
night practice was over and all hands were set to work to clean ship.
But even before this, it was known on board the _Manhattan_ that the
coveted “Meat-ball,” the token of supremacy at the guns, was still the
flag-ship’s trophy; and that Ned Strong had contributed no small share
to the retention of the red flag with the black center that means so
much to the Jackie whose ship is entitled to fly it.