The Adventure Club with the fleet

[Illustration: “War’s begun!” he announced breathlessly]

The Adventure Club With The Fleet

By

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR AUTHOR OF “LEFT END EDWARDS,” “LEFT TACKLE THAYER,” “THE ADVENTURE CLUB AFLOAT,” ETC.

With Illustrations By Edward C. Caswell

[Illustration]

New York Dodd, Mead And Company Publishers

Copyright, 1918, By Dodd, Mead And Company, Inc.

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE I STEVE BRINGS THE NEWS 1 II JOE CHANGES HIS MIND 14 III AT THE TRAINING STATION 26 IV LAND HO! 41 V OVER THERE 55 VI THE U.S.S. WARREN 65 VII SEA DUTY 76 VIII WITH THE “SUICIDE FLEET” 91 IX BACKS TO THE WALL 107 X THE ALLIES TRIUMPH 121 XI THE ARMADA 131 XII “ALLO, SAMMEE!” 141 XIII THE WARREN’S FIRST KILL 152 XIV LETTERS FROM HOME 163 XV OVERBOARD! 174 XVI THE FLOATING MINE 185 XVII ABOARD THE SUNDSVALL 195 XVIII THE SIGNAL FROM THE FO’CSLE 208 XIX H.M.S. LINNET 219 XX THE BATTLE IN THE FOG 231 XXI THE ZEPPELIN RAID 244 XXII OLD FRIENDS COME ABOARD 256 XXIII ON BOARD THE 3-U-9 268 XXIV THE WARREN DROPS ANCHOR 288

Illustrations

“WAR’S BEGUN!” HE ANNOUNCED BREATHLESSLY (Page 1) _Frontispiece_

Facing Page

Steve Darted Forward And Swung His Fist 118

ON SUCH A NIGHT A DESTROYER IS LITTLE BETTER THAN A SLENDER STEEL CYLINDER FILLED WITH CLUTCHING MEN IN GREY CANVAS LIFE-PRESERVERS 180

AN OFFICER SPRANG TO THE DECK WITH A WHITE FLAG AND HELD IT FLUTTERING FROM OUTSTRETCHED ARMS 293

The Adventure Club With The Fleet

Chapter I

Steve Brings The News

Steve Chapman turned from Chapel Street into the quieter thoroughfare, metaphorically speaking, on two wheels, bounded up the steps of the fourth house in the row, took the first flight of stairs on high, raced along the corridor, skidded a bit at the last portal on the right and, finally, setting all brakes, came to a standstill in the centre of the floor, while, as the door swung back against the wall, every picture in the study jarred askew.

“War’s begun!” he announced breathlessly. “President Wilson has signed! We’re in it at last, Joe!”

Joe Ingersoll regarded his room-mate calmly across the desk, one hand holding open the book he had been studying. “But why wreck the premises?” he asked mildly. “What do you think you are? The German Army in Belgium?”

Steve, subsiding against the back of the Morris chair, strove to regain his breath and wither the other with a glance, a not particularly successful effort. “You make me tired,” he declared. “Where’s your patriotism, you block of wood? I nearly break my neck to get the joyful news to you, and you sit there like――like――――”

“Calm yourself, Steven. I’ve known it for at least ten minutes. The newsboys have been yelling their little hearts out around the corner there. Let’s see the paper, though.”

“I’ve a good mind not to,” grumbled Steve. But he tossed the crumpled “extra” to the desk and then hurried around to where he could look over his chum’s shoulder. The New Haven paper had done itself proud in the matter of type. Three lines of big, black block letters swept across the upper half of the sheet, proclaiming:

WAR DECLARED AGAINST GERMANY VOTE IN HOUSE IS 373 TO 50 PRESIDENT SIGNS DECLARATION

“Yes, we’re in it,” said Joe, laying the paper down, “and I’m wondering――――”

“What?” asked the other, impatiently.

“Whether to be glad or sorry,” ended Joe soberly.

“Sorry! Great Jumping Jehosophat! Do you mean that after all we’ve stood for from those――those barbarians――――”

“I know, Steve, but war is serious business. Look what it has cost the others already: millions of men and billions of money: and――――”

“Oh, forget the money part of it, Joe, for the love of Mike! Why, that’s all I’ve been hearing for a year! ‘How much will it cost us?’ What’s money against human life and――and human liberty? And――――”

“And the war’s no nearer won than it was three years ago,” continued Joe imperturbably. “You’ve got to think of the cost, Steve. I’m as keen as you are for licking the hide off those Huns, but I can’t get up and cheer about this. Not just this minute, anyhow. It will be a long, hard grind, old man.”

“Maybe, but just you wait until we land a couple of millions of our chaps over there! Wait till our ships get a whack at theirs! We may be slow at starting, but, by the Lord Harry, when we do begin you’ll see the fur fly!”

“I hope so, but it’s going to take time to get those two millions together, Steve. And as for our Navy, it’ll be months before it is ready to whack anybody. Don’t get it into your head that Germany’s licked because a crowd of legislators in Washington have voted ‘yes’ on this war resolution and the President has written his name at the bottom of it. We’re about as ready to make war on Germany as――as the Freshman Nine is to lick the ’varsity!”

“It could do it in a minute if it had a decent first baseman,” replied Steve, grinning. “Knocking the Army and Navy is fashionable, I know, but I don’t believe either of ’em is as badly off as the ‘sob sisters’ tell us in the magazines. Why, if you believe all you read we haven’t a regiment that isn’t shot to pieces or a ship that isn’t ready to be scrapped. Piffle! Our Army’s as good as we need for a starter and our Navy’s as good as the next fellow’s. And, what’s more, we’ve got the money to build ’em both as big as we need ’em!”

“Who’s talking money now?” asked Joe, smiling. “Of course we’ll get an army together after a while, and when we’ve got it it’ll be a real one. I’ll bank on that. And when our Navy is ready to fight it’ll fight, believe me! But it will take time and money and, I’m afraid, men before either one is fit to start in. I guess all we can do for the next six months is supply money and food to the Allies.”

“Meaning the other Allies,” corrected Steve. “Remember we’re one of ’em now.”

“Yes, that’s so. We’re in it, too. It seems――funny, doesn’t it?”

“Funny? It seems mighty good! I say, Joe, this will make a difference around here, won’t it?”

“Here in college? Well, I don’t know. Yes, I suppose there’ll be a lot of fellows missing in the Fall.”

“In the Fall? I mean right now, old scout! I know a dozen fellows at least who will be beating it in a few days. There’s Han, for instance. He’s said all along that he’d enlist as soon as we entered the fracas. I wish I’d done what he did and gone in for the Naval Reserve. He will fall into a soft snap, I’ll bet. Maybe he will be a lieutenant or――or something.”

“Admiral, likely,” said Joe dryly. “I wouldn’t worry about lost opportunities, Steve. Next Summer will be plenty of time to start in.”

“Next Summer! Start in!” exclaimed the other, observing his companion incredulously. “Where the dickens do you suppose I’ll be next Summer?”

“Where?”

“Well, not around these diggings, anyway. In the trenches, maybe. Anyhow, in training camp. So will you.”

“Not likely. They’re going to draft them from twenty-one up, and as you and I are only eighteen――――”

“Draft! Who’s going to wait for the draft? ‘Not I,’ said the Fly! Nor you either, I hope.”

“Do you mean that you’re going to volunteer?” asked Joe.

“Surest thing you know,” answered Steve stoutly.

“You’re too young.”

“I’m eighteen, and I’ll be nineteen pretty soon. There are lots of chaps in the Army no older than that.”

“You’ll have to go into the ranks then.”

“Of course I shall. I don’t expect to be made a General, you idiot! At least, not right off. Do you mean to sit there and tell me that you haven’t thought of enlisting, Joe?”

“I have thought of it often,” was the calm reply, “and I long ago decided not to. There’s time enough. They’ll draft me when I’m old enough――――”

“Why, you piker, the war will be over before that!”

“And, besides, I want to finish college. Oh, I don’t say that I won’t enlist if things go badly. But there’s plenty to do here just now. You don’t want Harvard to beat us in baseball, do you?” he ended, smiling.

“I don’t give a hang whether she does or not,” answered Steve disgustedly. “I never heard such tommyrot in my life! Of course you’re going into it, man! Every fellow that has a drop of red blood is! I’ll bet you there won’t be a handful of the students left in a month! Why, it’s dollars to doughnuts there won’t be enough fellows left in either the Yale or Harvard freshman team by June to play! Take a tumble to what’s up, Joe. Hang it, man, we’re at war!”

“I know, but it isn’t war of my making. And if I go into it before I’m twenty-one it will be because I see the necessity of it and not because I’m just excited, as you are, Steve. I don’t believe I’m more of a coward than the average fellow, but I don’t care a whole lot about filling a cosy little grave over in France just yet. There’s time enough for that, Steve.”

“You sound like a bloomin’ pacifist,” snorted Steve. “Or a slacker. If every fellow talked the way you talk――――”

“You’ll find a lot of fellows think that way if they don’t talk it. And if you take my advice, Steve, you’ll sit tight and wait for college to close. Then go to Plattsburg or somewhere and get a second lieutenancy. Fellows like you don’t go in as privates.”

“Wait be blowed! Suppose the bloomin’ war was over by the time I got a commission? I’d look an awful ass, wouldn’t I? Why, hang it, I’d be kicking myself all the rest of my days if they settled the Kaiser’s hash without my help! A fellow can go to college any old time, Joe, but only about once in a hundred years does he get a chance to ‘horn in’ in a big scrap like this! Besides, you’re dead wrong about this private soldier business. It’s fellows like me who are privates, and mighty good ones, too. No, sir, I’d rather be a doughboy right now and get action than wait around for a second lieutenancy and miss the fun!”

“Well, don’t lose your shirt,” laughed Joe. “The war will wait a day or two for you.”

“I’m not taking any chances on it,” growled Steve. “It would be just my blessed luck if old Kaiser Bill threw up the sponge about the time I started across. Look here, Joe, you aren’t in earnest about not going, are you?”

Joe nodded. “Dead earnest,” he answered.

“That’s beastly,” grumbled the other. “I’ve been thinking right along that you and I’d be together and have some dandy times.”

“You talk as though this war was a picnic,” objected Joe.

“I don’t mean to. I know it’s a pretty serious business, just as you say it is. But a fellow can’t help being a bit excited about it, and glad that he’s on hand to help out. It _is_ helping out, you know, Joe, this enlisting, and that’s why I can’t get your point of view. The country needs fighters, old man.”

“The country will have all it will need, Steve, without me. I’m no soldier and never could be. I’d never have any stomach for poking a bayonet through another man. I’d probably quit first and get court-martialed. There are plenty of chaps who are cut out for the job. Let them have the first whack at it.”

“That’s rotten!” declared Steve hotly. “Sitting back and letting the other fellow do your work! If I felt that way I’d never acknowledge it.”

“Yes, you would, just as I do,” replied Joe, without affront. “Look at it sensibly, Steve: forget for a minute that you’ve just heard about war being on and are all excited. You know plaguey well that everyone isn’t called on to go into the trenches. A lot of fellows want to go for the excitement of the thing――――”

“It isn’t only excitement,” denied Steve warmly. “There’s――there’s such a thing as patriotism, Joe!”

“Call it patriotism, then. I won’t say it isn’t that with a good many. Anyway, why not let those who want to fight go and fight and let those who don’t want to, stay at home until the first lot find the job too big for them? Seems to me that’s perfectly fair and perfectly sensible. Maybe there’s something wrong with me, Steve, but I’d throw a fit if I had to shoot a man or run a bayonet into him.”

“I don’t suppose any fellow would find much fun in it,” agreed Steve, frowning, “but when you think of――of the _Lusitania_ and of how the Germans have shelled defenceless women and children in life-boats and――oh, hang it, Joe, shooting’s too good for them!”

“I suppose it comes back to the old question of whether it is right to commit murder in revenge for murder.”

“Murder! War isn’t murder! You’re a crazy pacifist!”

“I guess I am――sort of. At least, it goes against the grain with me, Steve, to shoot a man named Smith because a man named Jones who happens to be of the same nationality as Smith has killed one of my countrymen. Oh, I dare say my reasoning’s all wrong, but that’s the way I feel about it.”

“You bet your reasoning’s wrong! It’s punk! You want to do less reasoning, Joe. That’s the trouble with you, anyway: you have to mull things over instead of stripping off your sweater and diving in. There are times, old scout, when a fellow’s heart is a lot better guide than his brain!”

“Well, suppose heart and brain are agreed?” asked Joe, smiling. “Mine are. My heart tells me it won’t stand for killing folks and my brain tells me to keep out of it as long as I can. I know this doesn’t sound heroic, Steve, but I guess I wasn’t cut out for a hero. I’ll do my share behind the trenches gladly, but I don’t want to either shoot or be shot at.”

“You’re talking absolute drivel,” grumbled the other. “If every fellow wanted to stay behind the trenches――――”

“But they don’t. That’s the point I’m trying to make. There are lots of them who are crazy to get into the trenches. Let them. I’m not. So let me stay back.”

“If I didn’t know you I’d think you were yellow,” said Steve disgustedly.

“But you do know me and you know that I’m not,” responded Joe equably. “I don’t think it’s cowardice, although I know mighty well that my knees would knock together and I’d be sort of sick inside me if I had to crawl out of a trench and walk into machine-gun fire. But I hope I’d keep going. No, I don’t believe it’s exactly cowardice, Steve. I don’t know what it is. I just know that I don’t want to fight, not a little bit.”

“What gets me is that you’re a natural-born scrapper,” said Steve, plainly puzzled. “You fight harder than any chap I know in a game.”

“War isn’t a game. Perhaps that explains it,” answered Joe doubtfully. There was silence for a long minute. Then Steve exclaimed:

“It doesn’t, though. You don’t see things in the right way, Joe. This war isn’t just――just a war of revenge. We’re not going after Germany because she killed our men and women and children and blew up some of our shipping. There’s a heap more than that in it, Joe. We are fighting for a principle, for Liberty and――and Civilisation. We’re going into it because if we don’t go into it Belgium and France and England and maybe the whole world will become just a rotten mess of German Imperialism. We’re fighting for World Freedom, Joe. This war’s a――a righteous war, I tell you! Can’t you see that? And if you do see it can there be any question of your duty and my duty? I’m not much of a spieler, and maybe I don’t get it over, but if you felt the way I feel about this thing you wouldn’t sit there and talk about the Freshman Nine and――and letting the other fellow do the job for you! If I could――――”

Steve’s eloquence was suddenly interrupted. Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside and, as he turned inquiringly, a figure appeared in the doorway, the figure of a big, rangy youth of nineteen with a good-looking, good-natured face who, hands in pockets, surveyed the scene with a gravely quizzical smile.

“Go on, Steve,” said the newcomer encouragingly. “You’re in fine voice.”

Chapter II

Joe Changes His Mind

“Hello, Han!” cried Steve Chapman. “We were just talking about you. Come on in.”

“It’s the first time I ever heard anyone get eloquent on the subject,” responded George Hanford as he swung across the room and lowered himself onto the window-seat. “It sounded like a debate as I came up the stairs.”

“Steve was talking war,” said Joe.

“Oh! Well, he’s not the only one. What do you think of it, Steve?”

“I think it’s great! I’m for it, Han. What about you? Are you going now or――――”

“Now. I dropped around to say _au revoir_. I’m off at four.”

“Not really?” exclaimed Steve. “Gee, I wish I were going! Where do you go to?”

“Brooklyn Navy Yard. After that――――” He spread his hands expressively. “I’m hoping they’ll stick me on something that’s going across, though.”

Steve got up and strode excitedly the length of the study and back. Joe thoughtfully picked a hole in the blotter with the point of a pen. “I wish I’d gone into the Naval Reserve,” said Steve coming to a stop in front of Han’s outstretched feet. “The Army’s no good. They’ll keep us here for months, they say, and drill us until the blooming war’s all over.”

“Yes, I guess the sailors will have the call,” agreed Han. “I hear that we’ve had ships with steam up and bunkers full and crews aboard for two weeks all ready to start over. Hope to goodness I’m lucky enough to get on one of them. So it’s the Army for you fellows, eh? Going to join now or wait till term’s over?”

“I’m going to enlist as soon as I hear from the folks,” replied Steve eagerly. “I wired dad half an hour ago. Joe has some silly notion that it isn’t polite to skewer a German and says he’s off it.”

“Joe?” Han smiled. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll be in it quick enough. You couldn’t keep him out of a scrap if you tried.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Steve ruefully, “but he’s gone and got a lot of fool pacifist notions into his noodle. I wish to goodness you’d talk to him, Han!”

But Han shook his head. “No thanks. If he really feels that way the best thing to do is just let him alone until the poison works itself out. He’ll come around. I had queer ideas myself a year or so ago. Didn’t approve of war much. Considered it a return to barbarism and all that, you know. Do yet. But, of course, we’ve got a duty to perform and we’ve got to perform it the most practical way. And the quickest way. That means war. We’ve tried soft words and we’ve tried argument. We’ve given ’em all the rope we could. Only thing left is to knock the tar out of ’em.” Han spoke quite dispassionately.

“That’s just it,” agreed Steve. “We’ve been patient long enough. I’m for action. I wonder if I could join one of those Canadian regiments and get across this Summer, Han.”

“Guess so. You’d have to lie, though, and say you were a British subject. Personally, I’d a heap rather fight under the old Stars and Stripes. Look here, why don’t you go in for the Navy?”

“Eh?” Steve stared a moment. “By Jove! Could I?”

“Don’t see why not. You like the water, too.”

“Rather! Why, I never thought of the Navy! I wonder――look here, how old do they take you?”

“Seventeen up. You have to have your parents’ permission if you’re under eighteen. You’re eighteen, aren’t you?”

“Yes. By Jove, that’s an idea! Hear that, Joe? Tell me about it, Han. What do I do? Where do I go to see about it? How soon――――”

“Easy on! You enlist for four years usually, but I believe they’re taking ’em now for the period of the war. You can search me as to what that means! You’ll have to start in as an apprentice seaman, I suppose. After that you can try for different things. You’ll get seventeen dollars and sixty cents a month――――”

“I don’t care about the wages,” interrupted Steve impatiently. “Where can I join? Would they take me?”

“Jump at you, son. Of course you’ll have to pass an examination, but they aren’t so strict in war time, and you’d get by anyhow. You must be five feet, four inches and weigh not less than a hundred and fifteen at your age. Then, if you don’t have varicose veins or curvature of the spine or about ninety other things, including deafness and colour-blindness, you sign a blank and get shipped to a station for training. I don’t believe, though, that they’ll waste a heap of time in training the fellows ashore. There are too many places to fill. Sound all right?”

“Great! But could I do it? Be a――an apprentice seaman, or whatever you called it? Is it hard?”

“It’s a man’s work, Stevie, but it’s no harder than being in the Army. If you take hold and learn you’ll get on like a house on fire. After awhile you’ll get to be a second-class seaman, and then a seaman, and after that you’re in line for a third-class petty officer’s job. You can be a yeoman or a gunner’s mate or a master-at-arms or, if you like, you can be a painter! That is, of course, if you make good.”

“What are you?” demanded Steve.

“Ensign.”

“Fine! What’s an ensign?”

“It’s a start,” replied Han gravely.

“Yes, but is it like a lieutenant or what?”

“It ranks with a second lieutenant in the Army. Only,” added Han, with a twinkle, “it’s a heap more important.”

“I’m awfully glad, Han,” said Joe, looking up from his preoccupied task of digging holes in the desk-pad. “That’s fine. Of course you’ll get sea duty right off. It isn’t as if you were just a beginner.”

“That’s what I am, though. All the training I’ve had you could put in your eye. They made me ensign in the Reserve because I was too big for anything less, and didn’t know enough to be anything more! I’ll have to learn just as you fellows will. There’s one thing to remember, Steve, and it’s this. Once we get into this mess there’s going to be a vacancy on your ship right often. If you don’t come home a lieutenant it’ll be your own fault, I guess.”

“Unless he shouldn’t come home at all,” observed Joe quietly.

“Well, don’t buy any flowers yet,” replied Steve flippantly. “Where can I enlist, Han? New York? Brooklyn?”

“If you can drag your feet as far as Chapel Street――――”

“Honest? Of course! I remember seeing the place now. Look here, I wonder if I ought to send another telegram. Maybe dad wouldn’t stand for the Navy. He’s skittish about having me drowned.”

Han laughed. “Rather have you blown up by a trench bomb, eh? Well, everyone to his taste. Did the Government take over the _Adventurer_?”

“No,” answered Steve. “They say she’s too small. I believe fifty feet over all’s the limit.” He had paused at a window and, with hands thrust deeply into trousers pockets, was staring thoughtfully across the roofs to where, high above the big hotel, the Stars and Stripes was snapping in the April breeze. Han broke the silence with a quiet chuckle.

“Say, fellows, when we formed the Adventure Club almost a year ago we didn’t know what a whacking big adventure we’d get into, did we?”

“No,” replied Joe, “somehow the war didn’t seem especially near home then. I wonder why. Anyone who thought much about it might have known we couldn’t keep out of it much longer. I suppose we were too kiddish to realise.”

“We were only a year younger,” objected Steve, without turning.

“Yes, but I feel a lot more than a year older,” said Joe. Han nodded.

“We’re living fast these days. By the way, I got a note from Phil yesterday. He and Harry Corwin are down at Newport News and expect to make a trip across pretty soon on one of the armed liners. Phil’s qualifying as gun-pointer.”

“Phil!” exclaimed Joe. “Great Scott, think of that old sober-sides doing that! And Harry’s with him, eh? Some fellows have all the luck!” he ended disconsolately.

“Any of the other Adventure Club fellows in it?” asked Joe.

“Wink Wheeler’s training somewhere down south for the Aviation Service and Cas Temple’s driving a flivver over in France. But you knew that. I dare say there are others in it by now.”

“Neil Fairleigh’s training for something out in Kansas or Missouri or somewhere. Nick Taylor had a letter from him awhile back. Well, that’s seven out of thirteen accounted for,” added Steve.

“I make it eight,” corrected Han. “Phil and Harry, Wink, Cas, Neil, you, Joe and myself.”

“Eight if you count Joe,” said Steve rather ungraciously. Joe flushed but said nothing, and Han pulled his length from the window-seat. “Well, I’ve got a thousand things to do, fellows. Good luck to you, and here’s hoping we’ll meet over there before long.”

“We’ll make a date for Berlin the third Thursday in September,” laughed Steve.

Han shook his head, smiling. “Don’t fool yourself, son. This thing’s only started. Good-bye, Joe. When you get ready to come in you’d better consider the Navy. Maybe if you work it right you can make the same ship with Steve.”

“I’d like the Navy,” answered Joe quietly as he shook hands. “If I do――――” He paused, and then: “When I do,” he went on, “I’ll try for that. Good-bye, Han, and all the luck in the world to you. If you aren’t wearing epaulettes before the war’s over I’ll be disappointed in you.”

“Thanks, Joe, but if I get my two bars I’ll be satisfied. I’ll let you hear from me if there’s anything to write, and you might drop me a scrawl now and then. I’ll send an address as soon as I get one. So long!” Han paused on the threshold and looked back for an instant while his smile faded and a very sober expression came over his face. “The Adventure Club has found its Great Adventure, fellows,” he said softly. “Let’s all do our best to make good.”

After Han had gone there was silence for several minutes in the room. Joe was bent over his book again, but I don’t think he was studying. Steve had gone back to his contemplation of the windy Spring sky and the gay flag tugging at its halyard. It was he who broke the silence at last.

“I hope old Han comes through all right,” he said.

“Yes,” agreed Joe.

“He’s one of the best.” Steve turned and reached for his cap. “I’ve got to run over to the library a minute. If that telegram comes, Joe, look after it, will you? I’ll be back pretty soon.” At the door he, too, turned, and: “I say, Joe,” he began.

“Yes?” asked the other.

“Nothing. What are you doing this afternoon?”

“Practice at three-thirty. We’ll probably get outdoors again today. This wind ought to dry the field up pretty fast.”

“Oh! Well――so long.”

Steve clattered downstairs and the door below banged behind him. After a moment Joe arose and crossed to a window. Steve, hands in pockets, was swinging diagonally across the street, not at all in the direction of the library.

“He’s going to the recruiting place,” thought Joe. Raising his eyes, his glance fell on the flag streaming its red and white stripes against the blue sky. He stood there a moment looking at it intently and then, with a faint sigh, went back to the desk. From the main street came the shrill cry of a passing newsboy:

“Wuxtry! Wuxtry! President Wilson declares war with Goimany! Wuxtre-e-e!”

* * * * *

Steve’s telegram came shortly after luncheon. When he had read it he passed it over to Joe. “Do your duty as you see it (Joe read) and God bless you. Mother and father.”

Twenty minutes later Steve was answering the questions of the Recruiting Officer.

When Joe returned from freshman baseball practice at dusk two notes lay on the corner of his chiffonier and he took them to the window. One, merely a sheet of paper once folded and with a corner turned down, was from Steve.

“Pal: I’m running up to town for the night. Back early in the morning. I’m off to Brooklyn Navy Yard day after tomorrow. Better be sorry for the Kaiser now! Steve, _U. S. N._”

Joe reread it and then thoughtfully laid it down and took up the second note. This was enclosed in a sealed and fully addressed envelope and, since it bore no stamp, had evidently been delivered at the house by messenger. The writing was unmistakably Han’s, big, round and boyish. He tore the end from the envelope and pulled forth the single sheet of paper, not a little curious as to what Han had found to write about so soon. There was neither greeting nor signature to that missive, and Joe frowned perplexedly as he began to read:

“To such a task we can dedicate our lives and our fortunes, everything that we are and everything that we have, with the pride of those who know that the day has come when America is privileged to spend her blood and her might for the principles that gave her birth and happiness and the peace which she has treasured.

“God helping her, she can do no other.”

When he had read it the second time he refolded it slowly and pushed it into an inner pocket. Then, turning out the light, he went into the bedroom and threw himself on his bed and, hands under head, stared straight up at the darkening ceiling. An hour passed. Outside the lights grew brighter along the streets. The roar and hum of the little city lessened. At last Joe arose and made his way to the study window again. Darkness enveloped the town above the roofs, but, faintly illumined against the night sky, the Stars and Stripes still waved and fluttered. Joe brought his heels together, straightened his body and raised his right hand to his forehead in salute.

Chapter III

At The Training Station

Three days later instead of two, since severing connections with the college was not quite such a casual ceremony as Steve had supposed, the two boys found themselves at the Newport Training Station, full-fledged apprentice seamen in the United States Navy. They had duly satisfied the examining officer that they were eighteen years of age, had successfully passed medical inspection, had been shorn of all but a scant half-inch of their hair, had gone through a disinfecting bath and had been “shot” in the arm with anti-typhoid serum. And then, to their dismay, they discovered that they were not free to come and go about the Station, but――and this was something that Han had failed to mention――were due to remain in Detention Camp for three long weeks! The officer in charge seemed to prefer to allude to their habitation as the Recruit Barracks, but after the first few days both boys could have easily found a name much more fitting than either of those!

“It’s silly rot,” declared Steve one afternoon as the cheers from the ball field floated across. “Just as though we’d be likely to bring any contagious disease with us! We don’t come from――from the slums!”

Still, there wasn’t a whole lot of time to bewail the imprisonment, for they, together with an ever changing throng of brother recruits, had plenty to do to keep them busy. There was the visit to the dentist to start with and then the exciting event of receiving their outfits: blankets, uniforms, brushes, underwear, sewing materials, soap, bathing trunks, towels and various lesser articles: and of appearing for the first time in the “blues.” Joe was critical of the fit of his trousers and for the first day continually glanced dubiously at the flapping fullness around the tops of his stout Navy shoes. But secretly they were both as proud as Punch, even if Joe did remark flippantly that if the outfit really cost Uncle Sam sixty dollars, as rumour had it, Uncle Sam was getting stung! Whereupon Steve gravely called his attention to the undoubted excellence of the bone buttons included in the sewing kit.

If they had thought to be done with academic studies they were mistaken, for every day there was “school.” But all the instruction was not academic, for they were taught also how to wash their clothes and mend them, and their first essays in these twin arts were laughably ludicrous. “Suds drill” to lads who had never got closer to the labour of washing their clothes than――infrequently――filling out a laundry slip was startlingly novel! Nor did either of them show skill and grace in the manipulation of needle and thread. Steve had so many punctures in his fingers at the end of the first week that it hurt him to touch anything! For two days life looked rather doleful. The inoculation produced lassitude, and the food, good but plainer than they were used to, failed to appeal to them. But all that passed presently and soon they were as prompt with their mess kits as any, and roast beef and mashed potatoes and creamed carrots and cottage pudding, or their equivalents, found enthusiastic welcome. Since misery loves company, sociability reigned in Detention Camp. Steve and Joe made many acquaintances of many sorts, for the recruits that packed the barracks were of numerous races and from widely different walks in life. Many of them, indeed, were from the country, but far more were city boys. Of the latter the majority were surprisingly strong and healthy looking, and, as Joe remarked in some surprise, “stacked up better than the hayseeds.” College and preparatory schools had provided fully thirty per cent of the crowd, and of the balance another thirty per cent were boys who had learned or were learning a trade. Naturally the chief subject of conversation was the duration of training. Many held the opinion that the usual three months would be cut in two at least. All sorts of tales were told to indicate that they would be smelling powder in a month, stories of “greenhorns” being rushed aboard ship after three days at the Station, of thousands of practically untrained Jackies reaching Brooklyn and Charleston and Newport News weekly from the Great Lakes Station.

“Take it from me,” declared a big, raw-boned youth named Breen who had graduated two weeks before from the front end of a New York trolley car, “they can’t do without us, fellers. They’ve got the ships, see, but they ain’t got the men. An’ say, we’re needed over there, believe me!” He jerked a carroty head in the general direction of the main barracks which might or might not be also the direction of the coast of France. “I’ll bet you my shoes we’ll be chasin’ them U-boats inside of six weeks!”

“Some of us may,” agreed a little dark-skinned, black-eyed boy who had scraped past the doctor only by stretching his neck until it ached, “but there’s a lot of us’ll be kickin’ our toes around receivin’ ships most of the Summer. Say, where’s this Atlantic Squadron you hear tell of? What’s it doin’ to save the Country?”

“Patrollin’ from Newfoundland to Cuby, o’ course. But I hope I don’t get stuck on that.” Breen shook his head gravely. “They won’t never see no fun. Fritz ain’t sendin’ any U-boats this way, take it from me. The Allies is keepin’ him busy at home.”

“What about the submarine they sunk in the Narrows the other day?” asked someone.

“Aw, tell it to Sweeney!”

“That’s right! I got it straight from a fellow who knows. There was a Swedish ship come in and passed inspection and was making for the harbour when a patrol boat decides to give her the once-over and sees a cable dragging astern. So he signals to a torpedo boat and the torpedo boat stops the ship and investigates. ‘I’ve been examined and my papers are all right,’ says the Swede captain. ‘You shut your face,’ says the torpedo boat commander. So then they gets the winch going on that hawser and pulls up a German submarine which was thinking to get into the harbour and blow things right and left. Then they shoots the whole lot――――”

“Yes, an’ one of ’em was the Crown Prince himself!” jeered Breen. “Sure, I know. You hear a lot of that stuff. It listens fine, too. Like this here destroyer _Smith_ who seen a U-boat up the coast yesterday or the day before. What she seen was a porpoise, I guess. Take it from me, Jack, them Germans ain’t takin’ no chances. They never have an’ they never will. That’s their efficiency, see?”

“What about those raiders like the whats-its-name that――――”

“Easy, kid, easy! We wasn’t in the war then. You don’t see no raiders rompin’ around now, do you? You bet your life you don’t. Take it from me, bo, nothin’ doin’, nothin’ doin’!”

So they took it from him, and went to bed.

Unless connected with the ever interesting subject of the prospect of getting afloat the war was discussed but little, considering what they were there for. Baseball was a far more likely topic. Whether the Giants would come through this year, whether the Red Sox could “repeat,” what Mathewson would do with the Reds――all those questions appeared to concern the hundreds of embryo sea fighters far more than the world struggle that had called them together. On the whole there were few dull moments in camp, and lots and lots of busy ones. Day by day the faces changed as some went on to the main barracks and new recruits took their places. The British War Commission landed, followed a few days later by the French, and there was much talk of “Papa” Joffre. In the harbour destroyers dropped anchor and weighed again, launches sputtered over the blue water, a submarine from the New London base paid a visit and departed after an excited exchange of signals, submerging as she passed the point. Breen took his wisdom to the main barracks and a broad-shouldered chap who had been a telephone lineman until a fortnight ago succeeded him as camp mentor. Joe put on three pounds of weight, and Steve two, while their appetites grew daily. And on the first of May they ended detention and moved their kits to the main barracks.

They signalised this event by obtaining leave and hurrying to their homes in New York. They felt a little bit conscious of their uniforms, and tried very hard to attain the swagger of the experienced Jackies. It didn’t help Steve to feel at ease when he was mistaken in the Terminal for a porter by a near-sighted old lady, and Joe had unmerciful fun with him all the way uptown. That was a hurried visit, but it did them both good. Joe received a scrawl from George Hanford in which Han announced his assignment to the _Carthage_, scout cruiser, then at Newport News. “We’re looking for a move any moment,” wrote Han. “It’s full steam at six hours with us, and that means something. We’re not supposed to write about our movements, but you’re in the Service now, praises be, and so I guess it’s all right. I wasn’t able to find out where you’re stationed, so I’m sending this to the home. Write me when you get this and tell me how you’re getting on. We’ve got a fine set of officers on this ship and we’re all crazy to start something. Say howdy to old Steve and tell him to write.”

Joe’s fame had preceded him and he was hustled out to try for one of the baseball nines. He didn’t exactly cover himself with glory that first afternoon of practice, probably because one of the busiest and hardest days he had ever put in had taken the edge off his zest for physical exercise. When one arises at five in the morning and goes to his hammock at nine it is possible for quite a number of things to happen to him. It was hard for Steve and Joe to relish the sound of reveille at first. Five o’clock seemed a most unchristian hour at which to tumble out. For that matter I’m not certain that they ever came to care an awful lot for that first bugle call, although they did ultimately accept its summons with a fair degree of equanimity. At five-thirty they had to be ready for muster, and from that time until seven they were busy cleaning up themselves, their clothing and the barracks. Breakfast was finished at eight, when followed periods of drill, study and instruction until three in the afternoon, with the exception of an hour for dinner at twelve. Between three and six their time was their own unless there was extra duty or they were back in their work. The evenings were theirs until nine when the bugler sounded lights out. The routine on Saturdays and Sundays differed, and on the afternoons of those days liberty was granted to the recruits not under restriction.

Meanwhile they were learning, first, subordination, and, second, seamanship. Perhaps they were a bit more amenable to authority than the general run of their fellow recruits, since they had experienced the discipline of football and baseball training during five years at school and college. At least they seemed to find it easier to obey orders without hesitation and without question than did many of their companions, just as it troubled them much less to salute some youngster scarcely older than they whose sleeve happened to bear stripes and chevrons. That thing of saluting was a fine puzzle to them for awhile, as was the matter of insignia. Joe became almost pop-eyed watching for sleeve braidings or shoulder straps and his constant, haunting fear was that he would meet an Admiral and fail to salute. He didn’t know what the penalty for that would be, but, judging by the punishment for far less serious crimes, he presumed it might easily be decapitation! More than once both he and Steve, in the earlier days of their service, missed a bit of gold braid or an inconspicuous star and were brought sharply up by the wearer. In the end they adopted the scheme of Breen, now enthusiastically seeking to qualify for the electrical school.

“Don’t take no chances,” advised Breen. “I don’t. If I see a feller comin’ along that ain’t got up just as I am I salute him. If he’s an officer, all right. If he ain’t, all right too. He’s so pleased you can see his chest stick up. I ran across a chauffeur over by the gate the other day and saluted him fine. He didn’t mind, and it didn’t hurt me none. Let me tell you something, Jack. Don’t get this here ‘too-proud-to-salute’ bug. It don’t work, see? A feller was whining around barracks the other day about havin’ to salute fellers that wasn’t no better’n he was. Said he was willin’ to salute an Admiral and a few high muckamucks, you see, but he didn’t see why he had to show respect to a rough-neck carpenters’ mate. Well, I told him why. I says: ‘Bo, you ain’t salutin’ the feller in the uniform. Maybe he ain’t no better’n you are. You’re salutin’ the uniform and what it stands for. Get it? Them little didoes on his sleeve means authority, an’ it’s authority you’re flippin’ your hand to. An’,’ I says, ‘take it from me the sooner you gets that inside that solid concrete dome of yours the better,’ I says. Ain’t I right?”

Steve bought a small book containing, amongst other things, a full list, with pictures in colours, of all insignia of rank in the Army and Navy and studied it diligently, but at the end of a week he sadly acknowledged that he couldn’t tell a Rear-Admiral from a Pay Officer, unless the latter was working at his job!

Barring Saturdays and Sundays, Steve and Joe spent an average of eight hours a day in drilling, beginning with setting-up drill in the morning and ending with afternoon parade. In between there were other drills of many sorts, boat drill, gun drill, splicing and tying, steering, rifle practice and so on. And then, lest their muscles might possibly grow at the expense of their lungs, there was singing school one evening a week. Amusements were not forgotten. Moving pictures, concerts and lectures occurred frequently. On the whole, life was both busy and happy, and, after the first period of homesickness that assailed many boys was over, it would have been hard to find one who regretted his presence at the Training Station. Only, and this was a widely prevalent sentiment, they didn’t want to stay there much longer! Everyone’s ambition was to find himself afloat.

“What gets me,” confided Steve one day to Joe on the way back from a ball game, “is the way these fellows stack up. Do you know, Joe, taking them as they come they’re a mighty decent lot.”

“Well, why not?” asked his chum.

“No reason, I suppose, only――somehow you get the notion that Uncle Sam’s sailors are a sort of tough gang. I know I always thought so. I had an idea that when you got out of jail after picking someone’s pocket or busting another chap’s head with a cobblestone that the first thing you did was sign on in the Navy. Guess I was wrong, though. These chaps are as decent and――and intelligent as you’d meet anywhere. Don’t you say so?”

“I certainly do, Steve. And they should be. They aren’t bums. They’re just average American fellows, most of them from good homes and schools. Even those who haven’t had much schooling seem to know what is decent and what isn’t. There’s the fellow they call Abie in our company. He says he never saw the inside of a school house until a year ago. Grew up in the Ghetto. Well, Abie’s got more common decency and more genuine American spirit and patriotism than half the chaps we know here. Know what I think, Steve?”

“Shoot!”

“Well, I think this country’s all right just as long as you run across fellows like Abie. It’s easy enough for you and me to feel patriotic and be willing to fight for the Flag, but when it comes to a little half-size Polish Jew who has lived here only ten or twelve years and by rights oughtn’t to know whether the Revolutionary War was a prize fight or a moving picture, why, gee, I think it’s wonderful!”

“Right-o!” agreed Steve. “Abie’s a mighty plucky little cuss. We’ve got some fine fellows in our company. I guess,” he added naïvely, “it’s the best company here, eh?”

“Sure to be,” laughed Joe. “One’s own company always is.”

Steve laughed. “That’s so, I suppose. Just the same, it is a good one. And there’s all kinds in it, from Abie to that chap Manders who came back from leave last week driving his own whopping big Fiat. He’s going to take me over to New London Sunday if we can get off. He’s got a brother over there in the Submarine School. He’s a lieutenant or something. I’ll get him to ask you along. Say, know something?”

“A little,” confessed Joe, “but I’m willing to learn.”

“Well, I’ll bet you that if someone got up some time and yelled ‘Now then, fellows! A cheer for the N. T. S.!’ you’d hear every school and college yell between Maine and Texas! Only you wouldn’t, on account of there being so many!”

“I know one college yell you wouldn’t hear,” said Joe.

“What one?” asked Steve suspiciously.

“Vassar!”

“My word, but you’re the smart guy! Chin up! Here’s something with stripes coming! Maybe he’s an Admiral. Act pretty!”

“An ensign, you idiot,” said Joe as the officer returned their salutes and passed. “When did you say Manders was going over to New London?”

“Next Sunday. It’ll be a corking trip. That car of his goes about a million miles a minute without turning a hair.”

“You mean without casting a shoe,” chuckled Joe. “Don’t forget to tell him about me. Maybe we can get a look into one of the subs.”

That they didn’t was not the fault of Lieutenant Manders. It was entirely due to the fact that on a certain Tuesday afternoon toward the last of May their company and two others were ordered to be ready to entrain the next morning at six o’clock, and that when Sunday arrived Steve and Joe were many miles distant from Manders and his pea-green Fiat!

Chapter IV

Land Ho!

Joe leaned against the rail and gazed none too happily over leagues and leagues of tumbled grey-green water. Overhead the sun had been in hiding since dawn, but of late an occasional path of amber light had momentarily shot through the dun clouds and turned to jewel colours the crests of the rushing seas. Today the big liner was steady enough, but for the first forty-eight hours she had rolled and pitched a deal more than Joe had liked, with the result that a good half of that period had been spent by him in his bunk. It hadn’t been a pleasant time, for he and Steve and all the other men from the Training Station had been assigned to steerage quarters, and the steerage bunks were not what they might have been. Just now, however, what with a more settled condition of his stomach and the occasional glints of sunshine across a less boisterous sea, life looked a lot more attractive. Drill that morning, held on the far from ideal drill ground of the after main deck, had been a trying proceeding for him, and only the fact that the “Luff” in command of them had almost tearfully begged for a decent turn-out had prevented him from again claiming exemption. It was the first drill with arms since leaving port, and the fact that a certain exalted personage of the United States Army who wore three stars on the collar of his service jacket was, together with his Staff, watching that drill had made it very necessary indeed to show the best they had. The drill, in spite of causing Joe much unhappiness at the time, had set him up a lot and just now he was tentatively considering the matter of dinner. Not having eaten anything of consequence for nearly two whole days, his interest was only natural.

To starboard, so close that Joe could see the movements of the lookouts in her fighting tops, ploughed a big lead-grey battleship, a high-bowed, one-funnelled monster that had joined the liner sometime and somewhere that first night of the journey. Joe didn’t know her name, nor, if you believed them, did anyone else. It was remarkable how little anyone knew――or professed to know――about anything these days! Ahead of the liner transport steamed a smaller warship, a cruiser with four funnels and masts that didn’t match. Some said she was the _Montana_, but as no two persons could agree on the identity of the battleship Joe didn’t have much faith in the correctness of this guess. A second cruiser flanked them off the port and two fussy little torpedo boats wallowed about, well in advance, like sportive dolphins. Those convoys were a great comfort to Joe, although he sometimes doubted that they would have time from their signalling, in case of a submarine attack, to be of any service, for all day long, and way into the night as well, the big battleship signalled to the cruisers, the cruisers signalled back, the torpedo boats wig-wagged a bit on their own hook, and, not to be entirely out of it, the liner semaphored whenever the thought occurred to her. All of which, in view of the fact that there was a continual hissing and buzzing in the wireless room, suggested that there was a whole lot of conversation going on in that part of the Atlantic Ocean!

The transport, which only a few months ago, had been a crack liner plying between New York and an English port, carried a varied human cargo at present. There was, first of all in importance, the Army Officer and his Staff, and with them a small regiment of orderlies and clerks. Then there were a number of Navy officers who appeared to be sharing the work of navigation with the officers of the liner, several hundred bronze-cheeked, capable-looking boys in olive-drab whose hats bore the red-and-white cord of the Engineer Service, two hospital units, very proud in their new uniforms, four gun crews to man the five-pounders at bow and stern, the detachment of seamen to which Joe belonged, numerous civilians, amongst whom were a full dozen war correspondents, and the regular personnel of the steamship. The big liner, however, was very far from crowded, although at Halifax, before she had been towed out of the harbour, her decks had fairly teemed with passengers. That farewell to America had been rather stirring. Joe recalled the choky sensation that had been his as whistles on the assembled craft had bellowed hoarse good-byes to them and as, in the outer harbour, the sailors on the British cruisers had waved and cheered, while on one of the ships the band had played “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Before all that there had been a long and tiresome trip on a train that had been frequently side-tracked, during which they had slept as best they might in day coaches and, when passing through towns, with curtains lowered at all windows. They had had a half-day at Halifax before boarding the liner, but had not been allowed off the big dock. And now, after nearly three days of tumbling and tossing, they were far out on the broad Atlantic bound for a port unknown. They were, though, getting used to official secrecy. Not once since they had left Newport early one fog-drenched May morning had they known their next destination. Steve had questioned the quartermaster in charge of the detachment after they had entrained. The quartermaster was a good-natured chap, popular with all and without any “side,” and in response to Steve’s inquiry he had lowered his voice to a confidential whisper.

“We’re not supposed to tell,” he had replied, “but if you won’t let it go any further――――”

Steve had promised.

“Well, then, we’re going――――” the Q.M. looked cautiously around the crowded car――“to an Atlantic port!”

After that Steve gave it up and joined with the others in singing “Where Do We Go From Here?”

That, however, they were off for foreign service was no great secret, for they had had extra clothing issued to them, and that could mean nothing else. They had been excited and jubilant, and, at the same time, more astonished than they were willing to show. Why they, “greenhorns” to a man, had been selected instead of some of the fellows with months of training behind them was a problem. Of course they pretended that it was because they had shown exceptional ability, but secretly they greatly feared that an error had been made and were scared to death that someone in authority would discover the fact and summon them back to the Station. There was a distinct feeling of relief when the train started away!

They were having some sort of a drill on the battleship now. Joe could see the sailors and marines swarming the decks and thought he could hear a bugle. That was scarcely probable, however, as the big ship was some distance off and the wind, as proved by the smoke from the funnels, blew in a direction away from the liner. He had made up his mind that it was fire drill they were busy with over there when someone ranged himself at his side. It was Steve, looking very healthy and hearty. Joe slightly resented the fact that his chum had not experienced more than a qualm of seasickness.

“We’re getting into the U-boat zone, they say,” announced Steve, “and tonight we’ve all got to sleep in life-preservers. What do you know about that?”

“I’ll bet they’ll be mighty uncomfortable,” commented Joe. “How long do we stay in the zone?”

“Oh, right along until we make port, I guess. They say up forward that we’re going to Bordeaux. I don’t know if it’s so, though.”

“I know if it’s so,” replied Joe pessimistically. “It isn’t!”

“How do you know?”

“Common sense, Steve. We _thought_ we were going to Boston when we started from Newport and we went to Halifax. If we _think_ we’re going to Bordeaux we’re certain sure to bring up at――at Liverpool, or any place we don’t expect.”

“Well, maybe we won’t bring up anywhere,” said Steve cheerfully, “if we meet up with one of those torpedoes. We’ll just stay where we are, perhaps.”

“I’d hate to be a U-boat around here,” answered Joe, peering forward for a glimpse of the plunging vanguard of business-like torpedo boats. “I guess I wouldn’t have much chance.”

“Oh, not in the daytime,” agreed the other, “but at night a sub could sneak up, I guess, and take a shot and get away with it.”

“How would they know where we were at night? There isn’t a light to be seen on any of us. Fact is, it makes me feel a lot more uneasy to know that a big bunch of steel like that over there is almost treading on our heels every night than it does to think about U-boats. Suppose we lagged a little and that battleship or one of those cruisers tried to climb aboard over our rail? I think we ought to show a light astern, anyway.”

“Oh, that’s all right. The captain stands there every night and smokes a cigar, you see. All the other ships have to do is watch the end of his cigar and they know where we are! There won’t be any more night signalling, I guess. I say, watch this, Joe!”

Four sailors came along the deck and paused at a life-boat which rested on chocks nearby. In a very business-like way they proceeded to swing it outboard after which they secured it with new lashings to the davits, tested the falls and passed on to the next.

“Safety first!” murmured Steve. “Looks like business, what?”

Joe nodded soberly. “I guess I’m not going to mind sleeping in my life-preserver as much as I thought,” he said. “Also, I’ll bet that tomorrow morning when we have our next boat drill I’ll be the first one at station!”

Steve laughed. “Good thing we didn’t have to abandon ship yesterday, eh? What would you have done, Joe?”

“I’d have stayed right there in my bunk,” was the prompt reply, “and gone down with the ship. When you’re sufficiently seasick I guess a torpedo would be a――a happy relief!”

“Fine! You’d have got your name in despatches as a bloomin’ hero. I guess if anything happened right now Abie would be the hero. He’s been as sick as a dog ever since we passed Devil’s Island Light, poor chap. I asked him a few minutes ago if there was anything I could do for him and he said: ‘Yes, go away and leave me alo-o-one!’”

“Does a fellow get over being seasick, or――or what?” asked Joe. “What’s the good of being a sailor if you have to lie in your bunk when the fun’s going on?”

“Oh, you get over it pretty soon,” answered Steve, comfortingly. “Remember how jolly sick you were on the _Adventurer_ that time off the Isles of Shoals? Well, you weren’t bothered again all the rest of the voyage. The fact is, I rather wish I’d been laid up already and had it over with, because I’m plaguey sure I’ll have to have mine before I’m through.”

“I hope you’re right. I mean about getting over it. Suppose we went to one of those chasers or torpedo destroyers! Gee, you can get seasick just watching one of those tubs!”

“I wish they would put us on one of ’em,” said Steve devoutly. “What I’m afraid of is that we’re going over for shore duty. Crocker says we’re taking over one of the English bases and he thinks we fellows will have to get things ready there. That’ll be perfectly vile, won’t it?”

“Better than Newport,” said Joe. “We’ll be around where things are doing, anyway. Say, isn’t it ’most dinner time?”

“Pretty near.” Steve grinned. “You must be feeling better, old scout.”

“I’m mighty hungry, if that means anything. Let’s go down and be on hand, eh?”

“All right. We haven’t had our French lesson yet. Maybe there’ll be time for it. Come on.”

“I can’t study French on an empty stomach,” grumbled Joe, following the other down a companion-way. “Besides, I know what beef is, and coffee and bread. And I can say _une table_ and _une plat_ and _une tasse_, and I know that a newspaper’s a _journeaux_――no, that’s two newspapers. Well, anyway, I know enough French to get along with.”

“Never mind how much you know,” replied Steve sternly. “You get your little book and behave yourself.”

“Some day,” murmured Joe, “that little book――I mean _petite livre_ is going to accidentally fall overboard into _le mer_, which will be _tres beau_!”

That afternoon the sun came out gloriously and life was well worth living again, and the next morning the sea had calmed to such an extent that the sorely-tried Abie crawled out of his bunk and subsided in a sheltered corner of the deck, hope once more visible on his pale countenance. By way of varying the monotony the crow’s-nest watchers got up a submarine scare which brought joy to the crew of the after gun and caused a wild commotion below decks until the suspected periscope proved to be only an empty nail keg. Again, just at sunset, the two torpedo boats suddenly swerved northward, with smokestacks belching, and, at a distance of several miles, fired three shots between them. Whether they had really seen anything was never known on the liner. Sleeping with cork life-preservers strapped around one proved no more comfortable than Joe had predicted, but orders were orders and, after all, one did feel a certain sense of security that almost atoned for the discomfort.

They had a most exasperating way of holding boat drill at a different time every day on that transport. Only let a chap get settled to a game of seven up or high-low-Jack and the fire bell rang alarmingly and he had to tumble up on deck with his life-belt, donning it as he went, and take his station by the particular boat to which he had been assigned at the commencement of the voyage. The only thrilling feature of boat drill was that you could never be absolutely sure until you had reached the deck that this time the alarm wasn’t something more than just make-believe, that it didn’t really mean “prepare to abandon ship!”

But no untoward incident marred the peacefulness of that trip across. If the German submarines sighted the expedition they took good care to keep out of view, so far as those on the liner ever knew, at least. And finally one afternoon the lookouts in the forward crow’s nest broke into full cry: “Smoke two points off the starboard bow!... Smoke dead ahead!... Smoke broad off the starboard bow!... Smoke one point off the port bow!”

There was a wild rush from below as the message went around that the British convoy was sighted. Fast they came, four grim black destroyers, punching the seas into spray before them. Signals then from one of the pack, answered from the battleship; gay-hued bunting fluttering in the sunlight. The new convoy swung around without pausing and took positions, and the big lead-coloured battleship and the cruisers and one of the torpedo boats put their helms over and went back the way they had come, their duty done. Joe, watching them grow smaller and smaller, sighed.

“They’re going back home, Steve,” he murmured.

“Yes, the poor things! It’s hard luck, isn’t it?”

“Oh!” Joe considered that phase of it a moment in silence. Then he smiled. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “And maybe they aren’t really as pleased as they look. But the stern of that nearest cruiser certainly did look happy!”

The remaining torpedo boat fell in behind and did her best to keep up with the procession, but it was evident from the smoke she belched that she was having no easy task, for the new convoy set a hard pace for an old-fashioned coal-burning craft like her.

Fair weather carried them through another day and then there was a fog. But there came no alteration of the speed, and the liner fairly shook with the reverberations of her big engines. The next morning the fog was gone again and just after six bells the lookouts once more brought a thrill to those within sound of their excited voices.

“Land ho!” was the cry that came down from aloft. “Land ho, sir! Two points off the starboard bow!”

On the bridge below the four officers, two of the Navy and two of the ship, who had had their glasses levelled for some time on the faint streak along the horizon only nodded. It was some time before what looked like a cloud bank resolved itself into what Steve called “honest-to-goodness land,” but when it did a cheer went up from the men lining the rails, and a magic word passed from one to another:

“_England!_”

A few hours later the transport dropped her anchors in Plymouth harbour.

Chapter V

Over There

The rest of that day they spent most of their time hanging over the taffrail and watching the disembarking of more fortunate passengers and the lightering of much unsuspected freight which appeared miraculously through the great hatches, boxes and bags and firkins, barrels and crates and bales: foodstuffs, ammunition, machinery, clothing, copper ingots, telephone insulators, two railway locomotives, a veritable flock of automobile trucks, cases of picks and shovels, and, probably not the least important of many things, several small and heavy wooden boxes with rope handles which were conveyed from the transport under a guard of a chubby-cheeked corporal and four privates of the Engineers. The Army representatives went early ashore and, as those still aboard the liner could plainly see, were received with honours on the quay. Steve and Joe bitterly bewailed the fate that held them captive while history was being made ashore there! They could see the lines of British Tommies drawn up beyond the landing stage, the flashes of colour from officers’ uniforms.

“Just our rotten luck,” groaned Steve. “I suppose they’ll keep us herded on board this silly old hooker and finally dump us ashore at some out-of-the-way place where there’s nothing but a million dollars’ worth of landscape and a pile of lumber!”

But Steve was wrong, for although they remained aboard the rest of the day and all that night, their three companies of Bluejackets, all that were left except the ship’s crew and a few of its officers, they disembarked the next morning, bright and early, and, landing at a big stone pier, were marched through the streets of the city to a wooden barracks which had evidently been but recently vacated for them. What became of the Engineers they never knew, for there was no sign of them that day or on any other day of their stay in Plymouth. There were plenty of hearty English cheers for them as they marched to their quarters and so long as they stayed in the town they, to use their own expression, “owned it.” The officer in command was liberal with leave and they had a good time. They fraternised speedily with the British Jackies with whom the city was filled and under their enthusiastic pilotage, “saw the sights.” The harbour was a never-failing source of interest, for within it and all the way down the sound to Penle Head, merchantmen, transports, mine-layers, trawlers, destroyers, chasers and lesser fry lay at anchor or hurried about important business. There were submarines there, too, but they were elusive and only once did either Steve or Joe set eyes on one. The boys shopped, spent hours in the “Y.M.,” which was English for Young Men’s Christian Association, writing home or eagerly perusing the ancient American papers and magazines on file and promenaded along the Hoe. Steve wrote a letter to his folks, and, of course, mailed dozens of picture post-cards, and Joe followed suit. Joe also wrote to George Hanford, addressing it “U.S.S. _Carthage_, Newport News, Va.,” being certain that the _Carthage_ was no longer there but equally certain that the letter would ultimately catch up with Han wherever he might be.

Two days after their arrival one of the three companies was marched away in the direction of the railway station and after that inroads were made on the remainder nearly every day until, after a week in Plymouth, only a handful of their force remained and Steve and Joe, impatient for action, made plaint to the friendly quartermaster, the only petty officer left.

“You’ll move pretty soon,” was the consoling reply. “Don’t worry. In fact, if I were you, I’d drop around to the Y.M.C.A. before night and write your home letters. You may not have as good an opportunity again for awhile.”

Cheered by that, they followed the advice, and were afterwards glad that they had, for in the middle of the next forenoon the word came to pack kits and at one they were marching back through the town, all that was left of their band, thirty-odd in all, toward the water front. There they boarded a small, snub-nosed steamer, a mine-layer by profession but for this occasion doing duty as a transport, and together with two companies of British infantry, set sail down the sound. About them darted tiny despatch boats, while a grim-looking torpedo boat swung out into mid-stream as they passed and a few minutes later swished past them to take up her position ahead and act as convoy. Soon they were cautiously picking their way through the mine fields and skirting the cliffs and green uplands of Cornwall. Behind them, a tall stone shaft against a sunlit sky, the Eddystone light-house faded from sight. Later they swung around the famous Lizard Head, and by that time Steve and Joe knew whither they were bound.

“Queenstown, my lad,” informed a jovial British sergeant who had made their acquaintance soon after sailing and who had indefatigably pointed out the landmarks to them.

“Queenstown?” repeated Steve vaguely. “That’s in Wales, isn’t it?”

“Ho! ’Ark to the bloomin’ Yankee!” laughed the Sergeant. “It’s in Ireland, Queenstown is. South coast, my laddie, and not ’arf bad. They say you chaps are takin’ it over for a naval base. Sounds a bit odd, eh? Bloomin’ Yankees a-flyin’ the Stripes-and-Stars――――”

“Stars-and-Stripes,” corrected Steve gently.

“Whatever it is,” accepted the Sergeant untroubledly, “from one o’ our ports! This here war’s a queer bit o’ business, now ain’t it? I arsks you!”

“Well, we’ll make a decent place of it by the time we’re through,” said Joe. “We’ve tackled tougher jobs than Queenstown!”

The Sergeant was inclined to be indignant until a twinkle in Joe’s eye put him right. Then he chuckled and clapped a broad hand on the boy’s shoulder. “That’s your bloomin’ Yankee swank, eh? Well, listen to me, laddies; if you’ll clear out some o’ those blarsted Irish rebels while you’re there you’ll be gettin’ the thanks o’ the nation presented to you on a silver platter! An’ there’s no two ways about that!”

“Sinn Feiners, you mean?” asked Steve. “Are there any of those in Queenstown?”

“They’re all over the shop,” was the disgusted reply. “Cork’s the worst, though, around where you’re goin’. There’s Lands End there, do you see? And over there are the Scillies.”

“Sillies?” asked Steve, observing a group of Tommies across the deck as he obeyed the Sergeant’s tug at his arm. “Is that what you call them?”

“What else would I call ’em? There’s St. Mary and St. Agnes and a lot more the names of which I don’t know.”

“It’s the Scilly Islands he’s talking about,” explained Joe. “I see them, I think. What are those funny looking boats over there, sir?”

“Mine sweepers at work. And there’s a sub lyin’ hove to, just awash, beyond ’em. Passin’ the time o’ day, likely. Every time I look at one o’ those things I thank my lucky stars I’m in the Army!”

Their craft was not a very fast traveller and it was nearly midnight when it crept into Cork Harbour, bearing a freight of rather cold and very hungry humanity. The few lights of Queenstown twinkled beckoningly and they were all eager to feel the land under foot again. They disembarked on a darkened quay and, parting from their friends the infantrymen, stumbled over a rough, cobbled street that led them along the outskirts of the town and finally reached the destination, a new barrack building, smelling strongly of fresh pine. Hot coffee was all they had that night, but by that time they were far too sleepy to want more, and soon after arrival they were fast asleep.

The next morning they breakfasted luxuriously amongst friends from their own land. The number of United States sailors and marines already on hand quite staggered the boys. Save for the new buildings already erected or in course of construction they might easily have thought themselves back at home at one of their own naval bases. United States marines paced back and forth on guard duty, sailors were everywhere, officers hurried about and, high over one building, the Stars-and-Stripes fluttered in a stiff breeze. And that was not all to make them feel at home, for in the harbour lay a small flotilla of their own destroyers and chasers, as well as a big Navy collier which was unloading supplies, while, farther out, a grey scout-cruiser was anchored. There were British boats, too, and one green-grey destroyer which the boys later learned was Japanese. Every variety of naval craft was there, from submarine to battle cruiser, including destroyers and torpedo boats and chasers, sweepers, trawlers and layers and a shrill-voiced, _chug-chugging_ swarm of launches.

Their first day on Irish soil was scarcely a pleasant one so far as weather was concerned, for a chilling breeze blew and showers descended at dishearteningly regular intervals. But Steve and Joe had small time to think of weather, for as soon as breakfast was eaten they were hurried away to a long shed where they were set to loading ammunition on lighters. It was evidently important work, for all hands were at it, sailors and marines alike, while a worried-looking ensign trotted around and urged them on. But it was done by the middle of the afternoon and then Steve and Jack and others of their depleted company returned to barracks, very tired and stiff, with full intention of applying for leave to see the town. But their Q.M. had other ideas.

“Orders, men!” was their greeting. “Buckman, Spencer, White and Conner report aboard destroyer _Chauncey_ right away. She’s sailing at five. Smythe, Foster and Chapman report aboard _Chaser 17_. Corson, Levinskey, Ingersoll and Strauss to the destroyer _Warren_. Get a move on, all of you, and hustle down to the first landing. Don’t forget your outfits.” The Q.M. folded the list in his hand, nodded and turned away.

Steve and Joe were gazing at each other in consternation. “I’m going to ask him,” blurted Joe as the officer made for the door.

“So am I,” said Steve. They hurried after the quartermaster, saluted and blurted out their request almost in chorus.

“Couldn’t you let us go together, sir?” they asked anxiously. “We don’t care where we go, sir,” added Joe, “just so that we’re on the same boat.”

“Yes, I guess so,” answered the officer. “Here, let’s see.” He pulled his list out of a pocket and found his pencil. “You both report to the _Warren_.” He raised his voice. “Levinskey!”

“Yes, sir.”

“You report aboard _Chaser 17_ instead of the _Warren_. Get it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. Well, good-bye, you fellows, and good luck to you. Be a credit to my training.” He shook hands, smiling, and then as the boys thanked him turned and made his way across the yard in the rain. Steve heaved a sigh of relief.

“Gee,” he said, “that was a narrow squeak, Joe! The Allies came mighty near losing the war then!”

Chapter VI

The U.S.S. Warren

What is now the torpedo boat destroyer is only the old torpedo boat grown bigger, stauncher, speedier and far more powerful. This country no longer makes the torpedo boat, for the destroyer does all that it could ever do and a hundred per cent beyond. It was Great Britain who launched the first torpedo boat back about 1878. Those early examples of the craft were diminutive affairs, some sixty feet long by seven wide and displaced not over twenty tons. Their armament was usually two torpedo tubes and their speed never higher than sixteen knots. For shallow water operations, however, they proved successful, and gradually they developed until in 1890 they were displacing eighty tons and had a speed of from eighteen to twenty-two knots.

In our own Navy the craft did not appear until 1886, when the _Stiletto_ slid down the ways at the Herreshoff Yard at Bristol, Rhode Island. The _Stiletto_ made quite a sensation then, even though she was only eighty-eight and a half feet in length, had a displacement of thirty tons and did eighteen knots. But the _Stiletto_ proved the entering wedge, for five years later we had torpedo boats of one hundred and twenty tons and, in 1901 of two hundred and eighty tons displacement. The next step was the destroyer, as she was called for brevity, and at the time of the war between Russia and Japan these ships――no longer “boats,” if you please――had attained a speed of thirty knots and were of five hundred tons displacement. In that war the Japanese used their torpedo craft to excellent advantage, even though their policy was to take no unnecessary risks with them, and the destroyer’s place in naval warfare was clearly established. The construction of destroyers had a boom everywhere, and in this country we were turning out ships of four hundred and twenty tons like the _Bainbridge_, _Decatur_, _Chauncey_ and _Paul Jones_. These ships were two hundred and fifty feet in length, could make twenty-eight knots and for armament carried two eighteen-inch torpedo tubes and seven small rapid-fire guns. Whereas the old torpedo boat was designed to attack larger ships, acting in flotilla strength and under cover of darkness, the new destroyer was intended primarily to run down the torpedo boat and sink it with rapid-fire guns. But torpedo tubes were also provided so that the destroyer might likewise take the place of the torpedo boat in attacking larger ships. For a while the smaller craft was retained as a defensive weapon and the larger craft built as an offensive weapon, although neither was limited to its specialty. The torpedo boat, because of light draft and low visibility, readily became a weapon of offence, darting out from shallow waters to attack enemy cruisers and battleships with its torpedoes and, with good fortune, returning unscathed. On the other hand, the offensive destroyer became a weapon of defence when it stood by the attacking fleet and guarded it from the depredations of the smaller boats.

Finally, however, the development of the torpedo did away with the torpedo boat entirely, or, I should say, with the building of them, for most navies still have and make some use of torpedo boats turned out from ten to twenty years ago. (Our own _Dupont_, launched in 1897, was in commission in reserve at the beginning of the war and, doubtless, is doing its bit bravely enough somewhere today.) As the accuracy and range of the modern automobile torpedo increased the necessity for small boats decreased, since the torpedo could be fired at a far greater distance. Consequently the torpedo boat’s tonnage grew and the destroyer’s tonnage was forced to keep its relative advantage. In our Navy the jump was from two hundred and eighty tons to four hundred and twenty, and with that jump the torpedo boat ceased and the destroyer appeared.

At present time our larger destroyers are of about eleven hundred tons displacement――although we hear rumours of still larger ships being built. The destroyer must be able to cruise for weeks at a time without return to base, and for that reason must be sufficiently large to carry immense quantities of fuel and stores. Today one of our newer destroyers can take on enough oil on this side to make the run to England and back without replenishing her tanks. As to speed, the _Jacob Jones_, the latest destroyer of which specifications have been made public, made thirty knots an hour, developing about seventeen thousand horse power. Others, however, laid down after the _Jacob Jones_, are said to be able to steam at thirty-five knots and a fraction.

The activity of the submarine in the present war has had its influence on the destroyer. The torpedo as a weapon against the submarine is of no consequence. The destroyer trusts to the fire of its small guns or to ramming, when the submarine is on the surface, and to depth-charges when the submarine is submerged. As the all-important task of the American Navy at present is to combat the German U-boat, our destroyers, which, with light cruisers and “chasers,” are best adapted for such warfare, comprise the bulk of our offensive fleet. In consequence of the duty they have to perform the tendency is toward an increase of gun power, and the destroyers now being turned out carry many more rapid-fire rifles. Seaworthiness, speed and a large range of action are also requisites, and these features, too, are receiving attention.

The present day automobile torpedo is an outcome of the spar torpedo of Civil War times. The spar, or outrigger torpedo, was fixed at the end of a pole and exploded by contact with the hull of an enemy ship or by use of a firing battery at will. It was by such a contrivance that the _Housatonic_ was sent to the bottom off Charleston by a Confederate submarine boat, with the accompanying loss of the submarine’s crew. Other successful uses of the spar torpedo were made during the Civil War and later. Robert Whitehead invented the “fish” torpedo which, in improved shape, still bears his name. It has played a prominent part in the present war. Another torpedo, used by our Navy, is the Bliss-Leavitt. The diameter of the automobile torpedo varies from eighteen to twenty-two inches, with an extreme length of twenty-one feet. Essentially it is a submarine boat self-propelled. It consists of five parts: warhead, air-flask, depth control mechanism, steering gear and engines. In the warhead is a charge of high explosive, from two hundred to five hundred pounds, according to type or size, which is detonated by a firing mechanism. The explosive may be either gun-cotton, which is ordinary cotton treated with nitric and sulphuric acids, or trinitrotoluol, familiarly known as TNT, which is formed of hydrogen and carbon treated with nitric acid. The detonating mechanism is merely a firing pin which goes through the centre of the explosive charge from front to rear and is seated in a percussion cap located back of the charge. At the nose of the warhead the firing pin terminates in a safety device known as a butterfly nut. A second safety appliance reaches through half the diameter of the warhead and holds the firing pin in place so that it cannot strike against the percussion cap.

The air-flask is a strongly constructed steel tank which is filled with compressed air used to operate the engine and all other mechanism of the torpedo. The depth control mechanism is worked by water pressure and is adjustable by a spring before launching. It allows the torpedo to be run at any desired depth. Its principal parts are a pendulum and a hydrostatic piston controlling horizontal rudders. The steering gear consists of a gyroscopic compass which influences vertical rudders and keeps the torpedo on its course. The engine is operated by compressed air which takes the place of steam. A reducing valve decreases the pressure of the air to that required. An alcohol flame heats the air as it enters the cylinders and also produces steam from the water in a combustion flask. The air and steam are mixed and the resulting expansion provides the force to drive the engine. In several types of torpedoes the engines are reciprocating, but in the Bliss-Leavitt, or Bliss, as it is frequently called, are placed turbines that drive two propellers.

The torpedo is forced from the torpedo tube by means of compressed air. On a destroyer these tubes are set up much like a gun, and singly, in twos or in threes. Before the torpedo is placed in the tube the safety pin is removed and the butterfly nut is loosened. The breach-block of the tube is closed and compressed air is turned into the tube behind the torpedo, which, however, is kept from being forced out at the muzzle by a lock. When the catch of the lock is released the torpedo is forced from the tube. At the same time the interior mechanism of the torpedo begins its work and, at about forty knots an hour, the missile flies toward the target. On striking the target the firing pin, from the tip of which the butterfly nut has now dropped off, is forced back against the percussion cap and the high explosive charge is detonated and the ship is sunk or crippled. Since, however, the speed of the ship, its course and the speed of the torpedo itself all enter into marksmanship, the torpedo is not counted an accurate weapon at long ranges, and even at short ranges misses frequently occur.

The boys had frequently debated the possibility of assignment to a destroyer, but, since it was a recognised rule in time of peace that only service men should man such ships, they had ultimately decided that their ditty boxes were not likely to be stowed on one. A chaser, or, possibly, a light cruiser would probably be their fate. But now, having as Steve phrased it, “made” the _Warren_, they weren’t certain whether to be pleased or not. They had heard weird yarns about life on a destroyer, and Joe, haunted by the fear of seasickness, was filled with disturbing thoughts as they hurried off through one of the soft, warm showers of the south of Ireland to the landing. Half a dozen whale boats, dingeys and launches were clustered there, but inquiry developed the fact that there was no boat from the _Warren_ amongst them. They were discussing the chance of finding a boat to hire when a petty officer in the stern sheets of a launch hailed them.

“Where do you boys want to go?” he asked.

“The _Warren_, sir.”

“Jump in. I’ll drop you.”

They thanked him and entered the little launch which held four seamen and so much dunnage that there was scarcely place for their feet. They waited there in the soft rain for a few minutes longer, during which time other tenders departed or arrived, and during which Steve and Joe vainly sought to determine which of the long grey shapes seen dimly through the mist was the _Warren_. Finally a brisk young ensign hurried up, jumped aboard and the launch wheeled about and plunged gayly into the haze. They heard the petty officer explaining that he had offered to put the two boys aboard the _Warren_, and saw the ensign nod and view them appraisingly. Then one of the grey shapes loomed up before them and a moment later they were clambering up the side. They reported to the officer of the deck and were sent below. Going below puzzled them at first, for nothing looking in the least like a companion-way was in sight. Fortunately a white cap appeared above the surface of the main deck at that moment and they discovered a round hatch.

“A fat man would have a peach of a time getting through this,” remarked Steve as he led the way to the second deck.

Ten minutes later they had had their names entered on the ship’s roster, had been assigned to their bunks――for there are no hammocks on a destroyer――had stowed their belongings, and, in charge of a good-natured and informative youth of twenty-one or -two years of age, whose single chevron was topped by the crossed cannons of a gunner’s mate, and whose name they later discovered to be Hearn, were learning the ship. Many of the men, Hearn explained, were still absent on leave and wouldn’t be back until the next day.

“You see, it’s generally six days on patrol and three in port, and the Old Man’s fine about granting liberty. Last time another fellow and I got three whole days and pretty nearly saw this little island from top to bottom. And, say, it’s all right, too. I’ve been hearing all my life about the beauties of Ireland, but I never believed in ’em much. Well, say, it’s all true, fellows. You want to take a trip up to County Clare the first chance you get. It’s as pretty as a picture, believe me.”

Their knowledge of warships was confined largely to that gathered from infrequent visits to battleships and cruisers lying flag-bedecked in the North River. The present ship was something far different. There were no flags, save the jack fluttering at the fore, nor anything else that could be termed the least bit ornamental, for the _Warren_ had been stripped before leaving on her voyage across and only the absolutely essential things remained. Gone were boats and davits, awnings and stanchions, and in most cases the steel ventilators were now mere canvas funnels. What struck the boys most of all was the intensely business-like appearance of the destroyer, and after that her look of power and seaworthiness.

Chapter VII

Sea Duty

The _Warren_ was one of the Paulding class, just short of three hundred feet in length, with a twenty-seven foot beam and a draught of eight feet. (“Eight above and eight below,” explained Hearn, “and a lot of her weight topside, shipmates, so she’ll roll pretty.”) She was not a new ship, for she had been launched in 1912, nor was she as speedy as the larger ships. (“She’s done her twenty-eight and a half, though,” defended their guide, “and can show her heels to a lot of ’em.”) She had two masts and four funnels and everything about her, from stem to stern, foretop to keel, was grey. (“They’re painting some of ’em these camouflage colours,” said Hearn, “and a fine sight they are, too. There was a Frenchie in here the other day that looked like a blooming butterfly, believe me. They had her striped zig-zag with all the colours of the rainbow and then they’d painted wavy lines across that. Maybe you can’t see her any distance, but when she’s close up, believe me, you can’t see anything else! She’s a three-ring circus: and she’s got a name like a clown!”) Forward was the forecastle and here were mounted, one on each beam, two of the five three-inch rapid-fire rifles with which the _Warren_ was armed. Above, on the forecastle deck, was a third gun. The bridge, gained from the forecastle deck, was in turn topped by a searchlight platform, while aft of it was a diminutive chart-room. Beneath the forecastle was the officers’ quarters, the captain’s cabin extending across the width of the ship. Aft of that were four staterooms, the wardroom mess and the officers’ galley.

Amidships on the main deck stood a fourth three-inch rifle and, to starboard and port, two twin eighteen-inch torpedo tubes. (“They’re making ’em in triplets now,” observed Hearn. “Three tubes together instead of two. That’s going some, ain’t it?”) Astern there was another twin torpedo tube and the last of the rapid-fire rifles.

Below the main deck were the men’s quarters, the two boiler-rooms, each holding its pair of big oil-fired boilers, the turbine room, the petty officers’ quarters and storerooms.

“She’s awfully like a toothpick, isn’t she?” asked Joe dubiously as he surveyed the long and narrow deck from the stern taffrail to the distant break of the forecastle.

“She sure is,” Hearn agreed. “She’s just eleven times longer than she is wide, friend. And that’s some fine, believe me!”

“I think it would be finer,” said Joe, attempting a weak joke, “if she was a little bit wider. What do you do when two fellows have to pass on deck?”

“One of us hangs over the side,” chuckled the gunner’s mate. “It’s those fine lines, kid, that make her nifty. You wait till she hits her gait in a smooth sea and just watch her slip along! Fifteen thousand horse power, she has, and when those turbines get to nagging her three propellers, why, say, she walks a bit, believe me!”

“But――but in rough weather,” hazarded Joe anxiously, “isn’t she――er――――”

“You said something,” laughed Hearn. “She sure is. I’ve been aboard this porpoise when she was doing thirty-five.”

“Thirty-five?” questioned Steve.

“Yep, thirty-five degrees off vertical. That’s swinging, son, believe me! They say they sometimes go forty-five in extra rough weather, and that’s going through an arc of ninety degrees, but I’ve never seen that performance yet, and I don’t want to. Thirty’s bad enough. Take it on the foretop lookout when she’s switching over from one side to the other and doing it in around six seconds and you’ve got about all you want! And the worst of it is that you don’t ever know what sort of a kick she’s going to do next. She’s got more different motions than a cat and can do any seven of ’em at once. When you get back to the base you’re so stiff in your muscles that you can hear them creak!”

“It must be fierce,” marvelled Joe. “And don’t you ever get seasick?”

“Seasick! You’d better believe it. Last trip we had half the bunch flat, men and officers, and the junior luff wasn’t any use for two days.”

Joe groaned dismally. “I’ll last about ten minutes,” he said. “I――I guess I’ll get out of here while there’s time.” He looked anxiously about as though contemplating a sudden plunge into the water and a swim ashore.

“You’ll have it, all right,” said the gunner’s mate consolingly, “but you’ll get over it, I guess. Most of ’em do. Fact is, you don’t have much time for being sick. There’s too much to do. And, anyway, a fellow might as well be up and around as trying to hold himself into one of those bunks by his teeth and toes and eyelashes. It’s all right to be seasick when you’ve got a nice wide berth and a steward to wait on you and the old hooker’s only playing a bit, but on one of these tin cigarettes the best thing to do is to forget it.”

“Have you ever been seasick?” asked Joe dolefully.

“Me? I’ve been so sick I hoped the ship would sink! But you get sort of out of the habit after a while. The first week or so is bad, but then you kind of swallow hard and do your work and it don’t bother you much. Of course, there are some that never do get over it. About one fellow out of every dozen has to quit the destroyers and go back to the big ones.”

“I’m that one, I guess,” said Joe. “Why, I can get seasick just watching a goldfish swim around in a glass bowl!”

“You’ve got a swell chance of sticking around here, then,” laughed Hearn. “Say, how’d you fellows manage to get aboard here, anyhow? You’re apprentices, aren’t you?”

Steve told all he knew of the process, which wasn’t much, and the petty officer nodded. “I guess they’re taking most anyone on nowadays,” he said. “No offence to you fellows. Generally it’s only service men who get on destroyers and torpedo boats. But there’s a heap of Reserve fellows in the fleet now, I hear, and I suppose they haven’t got enough service men for the jobs. How long were you at Newport?”

Steve told him, and he whistled long and loudly. “Gee, that’s rushing things a bit, ain’t it? First thing you know you’ll be warrant officers at that rate! It usually takes some years, but things are happening fast just now. They tell me half these dinky little chasers that are bobbing around here are manned by amateur yachtsmen and ferryboat captains and the like. I suppose it’s all right, and at that they’re a sporting bunch, but it sort of grouches a fellow who’s been in the Navy five years to see greenhorns without any experience getting fat berths and big pay. Oh, well, if we just hand it to the Huns, it don’t matter.”

“Have you seen a submarine yet?” asked Steve eagerly.

“Dozens of ’em. We got four last week and just missed a fifth.”

But there was a tell-tale twinkle in Hearn’s eye, and Steve said: “No, really, have you?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. The first two days we were on patrol the lookouts reported exactly fourteen periscopes.”

“Really!” exclaimed Joe. “And――and did you get a shot at any of them?”

“Just one. And we missed that by twenty yards on account of being so excited. Still, it was just as well, as it turned out, because it wasn’t anything but floating spar.”

“Oh! And the others? Were they spars, too?”

“No, the others were mostly imagination. Maybe one was a porpoise. Yes, sir, we sure sighted a lot of periscopes those two days! The Old Man threatened finally that he’d drop the first man overboard who so much as whispered ‘periscope!’”

“The Old Man’s the captain, isn’t he?” asked Joe.

“Yep, Lieutenant-Commander John W. Stanford, Esquire, bless his old heart! As the British gobs say, he’s a little bit of all right.”

“What’s a gob?” asked Steve.

“You are if you stay aboard. It’s a name they have for the destroyer men.”

“Oh. Who are the other officers?”

“Lyke, first luff. He’s executive officer. The junior luff’s name is Putnam. He’s boss of the engines. Then there’s Connell, who’s ensign. That’s the lot, and all pretty good.”

“How many others?” asked Steve.

“Non-coms? About ten, I guess. And eighty-six men. Or was last cruise. You fellows will make eighty-eight if the rest all show back.”

“That’s a lot,” marvelled Steve.

“Well, there’s a lot of work on one of these things, son. We have to have all sorts, just like a dreadnought, only not so many of a kind: machinists, oilers, firemen, boilermakers, shipfitters, water tenders, electricians, painters, cooks, stewards, bakers and so on. Those are all artificers. Then there’s the seaman branch. And there’s a surgeon and――and―――― Well, if there’s anything we haven’t got, just mention it to the Old Man and he’ll fix it for you.”

“We will,” laughed Steve. Joe asked: “Do you think we’ll get our chance now that we’re assigned to service?”

“You’ll either be advanced to seamen, second class, or seamen if you stay around here,” answered Hearn. “Unless,” he added with a grin, “they make you admirals!”

“I don’t care much what they do with me,” said Steve, “so long as they let me stay here. Of course I’d like to get my advance, but I should worry. What I want is to get a crack at the enemy. Have you met any Germans yet?”

“Yes,” answered Hearn dryly. “We’ve got a couple on board.”

“Germans!”

“Well, they were till they got naturalised. Now they’re rip-snorting Americans.”

“Oh, but I meant enemy Germans,” Steve explained.

“No, I haven’t seen any of that sort yet, I guess. Yes, I have, too. When I was at Liverpool a month ago there was a bunch of them――prisoners, you know――standing on the dock. They were being taken to some place, I guess. They were a sorry looking lot, mostly no older than you fellows, and what they had on wouldn’t have tempted a hobo. Still and all, they looked fairly cheerful. Guess they thought it was a lot better than fighting over there in those dirty trenches. Say, I’ve got a friend who deliberately volunteered for the Army last month. Got a letter from him the other day telling me about it. He’s in a training camp somewhere up around Boston. And, say, that chump never showed any insanity before!”

“Insanity?” repeated Joe. “Oh, you mean――――”

“Sure! What’s he go and enlist in the Army for when he could be sitting around on a nice clean ship with nothing to do but work? It gets me, honest it does! Why, those blokes have to live up to their knees in mud: sleep in it, mind you: eat it almost: and all they see is a mess of barbed wire and an airplane now and then. Gee, think of sticking around in a trench for days at a time with nothing doing! Course he isn’t up against that yet, but he will be by Fall, I guess. And, another thing, fellows, that silly chump’s as likely as not to get killed!”

“Well, he might get killed in the Navy, mightn’t he?” asked Steve, smiling.

“Shucks, no. This is the safest job there is. Of course a fellow gets his now and then, but it’s a nice, clean death, and you’re so busy when it happens that I’ll bet you never know it! I wouldn’t join the Army for a million dollars!”

That night Steve and Joe ate their first destroyer “chow” and slept for the first time in narrow bunks between the thin steel walls. The food was good, and, since they were tremendously hungry, they enjoyed it. And the bunks were comfortable enough under the present circumstances, but Joe secretly wondered how he would ever manage to stay in his, much more sleep in it, when the destroyer performed those alarming tricks that Hearn had told of! They found their companions among the enlisted men a jolly and singularly care-free lot. They had expected to be joshed some, possibly mildly hazed, but were agreeably disappointed. The others took it for granted that the boys were full seamen, and, since they had each tucked their blue caps with the tell-tale Training School ribbon out of sight, there was nothing to undeceive them. It was only when, after supper was over and they were sitting around in quarters, a chap asked Joe what his last ship had been that the truth came out. Joe confided the facts humbly and not very loudly, and his neighbour laughed.

“That’s it, eh? Well, you’ll get your new rating in a day or two. Bound to. I want to tell you, though, that you and your friend were dead lucky to walk on board a destroyer as easy as that. There are fellows on the big ones that would eat their caps to get into the ‘Suicide Fleet,’ and especially on this fly-by-night!”

“Really? Is the _Warren_ an especially good ship?”

“Is she? You bet she is! She’s the best in the fleet, bar none. There are some that are bigger, but we’ve got the best shots and the best officers in these waters. And the best all-round lot of men, too. You just wait a month or so and they’ll be hearing back home about this little cuss!”

“I hope so,” murmured Joe. “And I hope you’re right about the new rating.”

As it proved, he was, for the next morning the fact of advancement was made known to them and they received cap ribbons bearing the legend “U.S.S. _Warren_” and were entered on the roster as second-class seamen at the munificent wage of thirty-five dollars and ninety cents a month. The wages didn’t excite them very greatly, partly because so far they had each received slightly over sixteen dollars all told since enlistment, and, as Steve sagely remarked, what was the good of earning thirty-five dollars if you never saw any of it? Both were assigned to the starboard watch and both had their first taste of deck washing, and by noon that day they had found their places to some extent and were trying their best to look their parts.

The rain stopped during the morning and a gentle breeze blew from shore, bearing with it a fragrance of damp meadows. But that fragrance had a hard time getting recognised on the destroyer, for the ship had a fine healthy odour of her own, an odour composed of burning oil, of hot iron, of paint, of cooking food from the ever-busy galley, all merged into one heavy and never-forgotten bouquet. The _Warren_ remained at anchor until afternoon, taking on oil and ammunition and supplies of all sorts. There were not many idle moments for the new members of the crew. By noon the last of those who had been off on shore leave were back and it was no secret that the destroyer would sail before night. Joe viewed the immediate future gloomily, but that didn’t keep him from following the general example of “filling up bunkers” at dinner, since once out on patrol the galley seldom bothered itself with hot meals. “You get canned salmon or beef,” volunteered a small, tow-haired youth who looked no more than seventeen while claiming twenty, “and the only hot stuff is coffee. If you’re on to the tricks you can sneak some eggs and boil ’em at the steam vent. But your best bet, friend, is to eat all you can hold in port.”

Just before sunset the _Warren’s_ engines began to sing a louder tune and presently winches clattered and the anchors came dripping up. Simultaneously two other destroyers, one a far bigger boat than the _Warren_, showed similar indications of departure, and presently the water began to ripple past the bows, the smoke above the funnels took on a darker tinge and the destroyer moved down the harbour, slowly at first and then faster, playing a hoarse tune on her siren as she signalled for the “gate.” Behind her at respectful distances came the companion ships, looking, head-on, like thin grey wedges of steel.

“See those barrels strung out ahead there?” asked a youngster in response to Joe’s question. “Well, those are the net floats. The lower edge of the net’s anchored to the bottom, all except the gate net. Those two trawlers you see are opening it for us to get through. After we are through we’ve got to steer a tight course, for there’s mines laid everywhere outside, and it isn’t healthy to slap one of ’em with your nose.”

“I should think, though,” Steve objected, “that if the mines are high enough in the water to get us that a U-boat could slip past underneath.”

“Oh, there’s three layers of ’em, and a Fritz would have to be mighty lucky to squeeze between ’em. They say that they have a sort of burglar alarm effect running from the net to the shore station, so if anything pokes its nose against it a bell starts to ringing. But I don’t know how true that is.”

“Are there mines all around here? Outside, I mean.”

“No, excepting floating ones that the Huns push off up in the North Sea or drop over from their ships. You find them now and then. You got to watch for them, kid. The _Jarvis_, I think it was, sent down three last trip. When you find ’em you blow ’em up.”

“Shoot at them?” asked Joe.

“No,” answered their informant gravely, “you run down on ’em and the Cap leans over the side and biffs one of the horns with a monkey-wrench. It’s more certain that way. You might miss ’em with the gun.”

“I suppose that was a fool question,” laughed Joe.

“Sure, number 71,698.” The other smiled. “You’ll be asking worse ones than that, though. I did.”

Once outside the nets, with the guard ships only darker blotches against the darkening sea and the sky still light beyond Kinsale Head, the _Warren_ dug her nose into the water and ploughed southward at a merry clip. For awhile the companion boats were visible, but eventually they melted into the night.

Chapter VIII

With The “Suicide Fleet”

High up on the foretop, on a narrow perch slung within a grey canvas cylinder that barely allowed elbow-room, Steve was on lookout duty. His eyes just topped the steel-hooped rim of his nest and a brisk breeze flattened back the brim of his white cap. It was his first go at it, and he was a little excited, a little proud and terrifically anxious. It was still early morning of the second day of patrol duty, so early that the odour of coffee was still floating up from the galley below. The _Warren_ was loafing along at some twelve knots an hour, but even so she rolled considerably and the cage swung from port to starboard and back to port, describing a good twenty degrees of an arc. Around him in every direction stretched a waste of grey-green water, a-sparkle in the sunlight save where, under the ship’s starboard side, a broad copper-hued shadow kept pace with her. Straight below, the foreshortened figure of an officer moved about the bridge. Forward of him the three-inch gun pointed an inquiring nose across the bow, gleaming dully. Turning his head, Steve could look into the cavernous mouth of the forward smokestack from which a yellow-grey vapour poured. White-capped forms moved briskly about the deck or lounged in the sheltered places. Somewhere astern was Spain, somewhere ahead, Ireland. For the rest Steve only knew that the Atlantic Ocean was beneath him――and doubtless a great deal of it, too――and that his eyes, after only twenty minutes up here in his dizzy perch were already aching with the strain.

Southeastward was the worst, for there the sunlight played queer pranks with the waves and dazzled the sight so that, to use Steve’s metaphor, muttered to himself, a dime’s worth of imagination would have easily created a whole covey of periscopes, to say nothing of subs themselves! Now and then he closed his eyes for a moment, while dark red spots glowed behind his lids, but only for a moment since he was eternally haunted by the fear that the other lookouts, or the officers on the bridge there with their glasses, would see something that he didn’t. More than once his heart missed a beat as, just for a breathless instant, some freak of sunlight conjured a distant periscope or the dark hollow of a wave took on the semblance of a dripping steel hull emerging from the sea. But it was wonderfully interesting, horribly exciting, and he wouldn’t have swapped that swaying steel-hooped cylinder for the steadiest bunk on the lower deck. In another half-hour or so his watch there would be over, for an hour of such eye-strain is all one can stand, and “one on and three off” is the rule for lookouts. The fear that he might miss something turned to the fear that there might be nothing for him to miss. He fairly ached for the sight of some object in that wide expanse of water. Even a floating log or wisp of wreckage would have answered; anything so that he might send his voice down to the bridge and prove that he was “on the job!”

The sun crept higher and the breeze, fresh and salty from the southwest, grew stronger and hummed a tune on the wireless aerial and slapped a line briskly against the mast. A flock of tiny blue-black birds swept across the bow, circled and spread low above the waves, melting into the irradiance of the sun. The navigating officer climbed the bridge ladder, sextant in hand, for his eight-o’clock observation. The appealing odour from the galley brought a wistful sigh from the foretop lookout. And then, on the heels of the sigh, came a gasp. Just on the edge of the luminous track of the sunlight was a spot. Steve stared intensely. The spot was lost to sight, danced into vision again, a tiny black something that was never a wave in the world! He closed his eyes, opened them again and looked. It was gone! No, it was there, further to the left! It was no periscope, for it was too far away, perhaps a full two miles, and it was not periscope shape. It looked――almost――like――――

Steve placed his mouth to the tube, and: “Small boat broad off the port bow!” he called.

The navigator unceremoniously tucked the sextant under his arm and two pairs of glasses swept into the sunlight.

“What distance?” called the Lieutenant. “I’ve got her! Empty, I think.” Steve put his head above the cage’s rim. Dimly he was aware of the mild commotion below and aft as the crew on deck piled to the port rail. Even an empty boat is an event after thirty-six hours of nothing. On the bridge the officers were still staring through their glasses, conversing in words too low for Steve to hear up in his roost, but the destroyer’s head was coming around and the smoke from the forward stack was heavier and greasier. Steve looked back at the dark speck. Already it seemed nearer, and as the _Warren_ turned the green, sun-flecked water from her sharp bow the object of her concern took form and shape. Minutes passed and Steve again hailed:

“She’s not empty, sir!”

There was no answer, but a slight wave of the executive officer’s hand said very plainly: “Don’t bother me. I’ve got eyes of my own.” Steve relapsed into his cage. The boat came nearer and nearer, a veritable cockle-shell of a craft. Oars glinted and a figure swung slowly back and forth until, realising that help was coming and that further exertion was unnecessary, the oars were shipped. The boat held three men――no, four, for one was huddled in the bottom.

“Fishermen,” called a voice from the rail below.

“And Frenchies,” said another.

“Been strafed, I guess. They must――――” The breeze blew the rest of it away. Now Steve could almost look down into the row-boat, and the destroyer’s speed slackened and the voice of her engines died to a mere hum.

“Ahoy the boat!” called a megaphoned voice from the bridge. “Row alongside and we’ll take you on!”

A babble of unintelligible language issued from three throats and floated down-breeze. One of the men waved a wooden bailer vehemently, but his eloquence of gesture was wasted. The “exec” shrugged his shoulders, but beckoned understandably and with a renewed torrent of speech the fishermen seized their oars and rowed tiredly for the slowing destroyer. Steve watched them come over the side, limp, pale and wet, Bretons as he knew by their picturesque costumes. Two of the rescuers leaped down and lifted the fourth occupant to the reach of willing hands. And then a quick command and the _Warren_ picked up her gait again, turned to her former course and lounged away, leaving the little fishing boat empty and pathetically alone.

When Steve’s relief came, ten minutes later, he hurried down and, between gulps of beautiful hot coffee and mouthfuls of wonderful canned beef, got the story from Hearn, GM3c, which, interpreted, meant gunner’s mate of the third class.

“They’re togging themselves in dry clothing now,” explained Hearn. “No one could understand a word they said until Carrick, the little Q.M. got at ’em. Say, he talked French like a frog-eater. He says, though, that the lingo these fellows talk is a sort of Bowery French.”

“Why didn’t they call me down?” asked Steve, his mouth full of bread and beef. “I’d have talked to them all right.”

“Sure,” replied Hearn. “Just like I did. Well, anyway, they’ve been floating around for three days now. The _Trois Freres_ was their boat, a little fishing schooner, or whatever they call a schooner in these foreign parts, and the Huns popped up alongside ’em one fine morning and――yes, sure it was U-boat. I said so, didn’t I? The Germans took every blessed thing aboard, including a catch of mackerel and all the food and all the money; even took the knives out of the men’s pockets, the great big hogs! Then they bombed the schooner and set those four chaps afloat in that two-by-twice dory, only they don’t call it a dory.”

“_Bateau_,” suggested Steve gravely.

“All right. Anyway, they were almost a hundred and fifty miles from land, and they had no food, and only one pair of oars. It was a mighty lucky thing the weather was decent, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, and a lucky thing I sighted them. If it hadn’t been for me――――”

“Yah, you! Everyone aboard saw that boat long before you did, you chump.”

“Sure! And you just didn’t mention it for fear of making a noise and waking up the other lookouts, eh?”

“That’s it,” laughed Hearn. “Seen that sidekick of yours today?”

“Only for a second,” replied Steve anxiously. “He said he was feeling better. Why?”

“Just wondered. Last time I saw him he asked me to get him some poison from the doctor. I guess he will get over it pretty quick, though.”

“Gee, I hope so. I’m afraid they’ll be firing him when we get back to Queenstown.”

“There’s a rumour around this morning,” answered Hearn, “that we’re to go west and do something important in the convoy line. If it’s so it means that we’re to bring in some of our troops, I guess.”

“Honest?” exclaimed Steve. “Are they sending them over so soon?”

“That’s what I hear. Regulars, you know. I hope it’s so, and I hope we get a look at ’em. Well, I’ve got to get busy. How do you like spotting?”

“Fine,” replied Steve. “But, it surely plays hob with your eyes. Mine feel as if they were full of sand.”

“I know.” Hearn nodded sympathetically. “Better climb in your bunk and close ’em awhile.”

First, though, after cleaning his mess kit, Steve paid a visit to Joe who was still prone in his bunk. “How are they coming, old man?” he asked. Joe opened one eye and gazed at him doubtfully.

“I――I guess I’m pretty nearly all right now,” he answered faintly, “but I’m scared to death to get up yet. I’m afraid it’ll come back. She isn’t rolling so much, is she?”

Steve, holding tightly to a stanchion, shook his head. “No, she’s as quiet as a kitten with a ball of yarn,” he said gravely. “How do you feel about a little broth?”

“Go away,” murmured Joe unhappily.

“Well, I don’t want to seem cruel, Joe, but if I was you I’d make an effort before long and try to report for afternoon watch. Did you hear about the Frenchies we picked up?”

Joe shook his head and looked mildly interested, and so Steve narrated with much detail the sighting and rescuing of the four fishermen.

“I suppose,” said Joe weakly, “you think you’re a wonderful little lookout, don’t you?”

“You’re jealous,” retorted Steve untroubledly. “Anyway, I got ’em before any of the rest did. Frankly, I don’t know what they’d do on this old tin tub if it wasn’t for me.”

Joe grunted and closed his eyes again. Then he opened the left one with an effort and fixed a wavering gaze on his chum. “Steve,” he muttered, “I was willing to die for my country when I started out on this grand career, but I didn’t think it would take so long!”

The _Warren_ patrolled an empty sea the rest of that day and at night, with all lights out, ploughed untiredly through the darkness. The next morning a British trawler was sighted and the four Brittany fishermen, clad in their own picturesque clothes again, were transferred to her. Shortly after that the destroyer turned her nose westward and went piling into a tumble of green sea that climbed aboard the bows and rattled like sleet against the canvas wind-shield of the bridge. The slender ship tossed and rolled and plunged, shivered and shook and rattled, and from her four grey stacks the oil smoke went streaking to windward in long scarfs. The engines hummed loudly and the air between decks fairly reeked of petroleum. In the hungry hour before dinner Steve and Joe and two others were huddled in the lee of the second stack. Joe, pale but determined, was keeping his eyes glued to the deck. He had eaten that morning for the first time since the _Warren_ had left Cape Clear behind her and, to use his own words, accompanied by a sickly smile, had done so not in vain. He had confided to Steve that if he once got safely ashore again he was going to ask for a transfer to the Army. Also that he hoped his folks would be willing to live abroad after the war was over, since he would never have the courage to go back to America so long as ships were the only means of getting there! Truso, second-class fireman, off duty, let his gaze roam aft to where, near the stern turret, were ranged a dozen or so depth bombs, villainous looking steel cylinders each containing some three hundred pounds of trinitrotoluol.

“Ever think what would happen to us,” mused Truso, “if a ‘moldie’ struck us astern? It’s a pleasant thought, is it not? There’s a good two tons of ‘truly rural’ back there, fellows, and it wouldn’t do a thing but spread us out for the matter of a mile. Bet you they wouldn’t find enough of the _Warren_ to put in a locket!”

“What’s the good of worrying about that?” asked Hearn. “If a German torpedo hits us most anywhere we’ll be perching on clouds.”

“’Twouldn’t more’n knock off our stern,” said Higgins, comfortingly. Higgins was a radio man, a tow-headed fellow of nearly thirty, whose rating badge on the left sleeve of his jumper showed the three chevrons and rays of an electrician of the first class and, also, two service stripes. “Leave her half her length and she’ll toddle home. I was on the _Warrington_ back in 1912 when a schooner ran foul of us and took our whole stern away aft of the fourth stack. We steered into port with the engines, all hunky. That’s what your watertight compartments do for you.”

“Two Summers ago,” chuckled Truso, “we were cruising off Maine in the _Beale_, a sister ship to this hooker, in a fog. First thing we knew, _biff-bang_ goes everything forward that’s standing, bridge stanchions, mast and number one stack, including our exec, who was on the bridge. Well, sir, it was nothing on earth but a dizzy old hay schooner. She’d swept her bowsprit right clean over us, taking everything in the way. ‘What you tryin’ tew dew?’ shouts the skipper, an old geezer of about sixty with a bunch of chin whiskers as long as my arm. ‘Run me daown?’ Well, I’d hate to tell you what our Old Man said to him, but I remember that he offered to kill him and not charge him a cent for it!”

“Was it a steel bowsprit?” asked Steve.

“Steel? Naw, nothing but a piece of spruce wood. If it wasn’t for splinters, I guess they’d make these things out of spruce instead of steel. They’d ought to, seeing the way that bowsprit raked us clean!”

“What’s the news in the world, Jack?” asked Hearn of the radio operator.

“Nothing much doing last night. Same old story. H.M.S. _Something or other_ wants H.M.S. _Whatshername_ to relieve her of escort; tramp steamer reports floating mine; some fellow reports a schooner on fire off Penmarch; _Cassin_ says she sighted a periscope and fired three shots and ‘thinks she hit,’ and so on. There were orders this morning, though. Came just as I switched off. Didn’t hear them decoded, but I have a hunch.”

“Well, open up. What’s the game? Why all the good old smelly fuel going up in smoke?”

Higgins winked solemnly. “Rules is rules, Sammy. You go ask the Old Man, or stick your head in the wardroom and ask the M.D. Bones is a great little confider, he is. There’s chow, praises be! I’m going to swallow mine lying down. Holding on today won’t get you anything. Observe the poor blighter in the foretop. He’s got a fine healthy swing up there!”

That afternoon there were two false alarms which supplied instant and hectic excitement but nothing else. Oddly enough the excitement was invariably shown by all hands in a more than usually quiet and contained demeanour. Steve and Joe found it quite natural to speak more slowly than ever when word came down from the foretop that a periscope was sticking up somewhere and to saunter to the side with an exaggerated carelessness. But that didn’t alter the fact that inside they were terrifically jumbled, and that they were always afraid their voices might break into a squeak if they spoke. One of the reported periscopes quickly resolved itself into nothing and the other into a floating spar. Later, the _Warren_ resumed standard speed, fourteen knots. Toward evening two trawlers waddled past, homeward bound, and that ended the day’s sensations. But shortly after four bells, in the middle of the “graveyard watch,” the engines began to hum again and the news leaked from wardroom to second deck that they were off in answer to an S O S to find a sinking cargo boat, a good two hundred miles south. With all four boilers steaming at just under twenty-nine knots, and the _Warren_ fairly throwing herself in and out of the seas, sleep was impossible. One could only brace every muscle and hope to stay in the bunk. On deck――topside in the vernacular――one dodged along the sloping spray-drenched surface in the manner of a monkey climbing about his cage. In the wireless hutch Higgins, receiver clamped to his ears, listened and wrote as the blue sparks darted and sputtered, while at the wardroom table, with the lead-backed code books open before him, the ship’s surgeon worked under the small-focussed light and turned the messages into King’s English: “Please hurry, going down fast”: “Broadcast submarine reported eight miles southeast, steamers keep off”: “H.M.S. _Spindrift_ struck by mine, latitude ――, longitude ――; no danger, relay east”: “All ships. Fresh-laid mine adrift ten miles E. S. E. Trawler notified.”

Once a sister destroyer blinked at them across leagues of tumbled water, she, too, evidently on the errand of succor. The _Warren_ had outdistanced her by daylight and about breakfast time was alone, searching the wastes for sign of ship or survivors. All day she doubled and crossed and never found so much as a floating spar until, just as a red sun sank past the rim of the watery world, a stove-in life-boat, almost awash, was picked up by the lookout and run down. That was all they ever found of the steamer and neither Steve nor Joe ever learned the fate of those aboard her, although the popular verdict on the destroyer that evening was that the small boats had got away long before the _Warren_ had reached the scene and were either making for the French coast or had been taken in tow. There were orders from the flagship then and the _Warren_ limped back the way she had come at a twelve-knot gait, her oil-tanks much too low to waste fuel on speed. A day later she zig-zagged her way past the cape and dropped anchor off Queenstown just as the lights began to show ashore.

Chapter IX

Backs To The Wall

The boys applied for three days’ leave and got――one. But they were no worse off than more deserving members of that oil-scented crew. “Back by daylight tomorrow,” grumbled Higgins, adjusting his neckerchief with extreme nicety and flicking an invisible speck from his blue shirt. “That means they’re going to chop our stay short. Well, a day’s better than nothing, but, just the same, a fellow never sleeps enough the first night ashore to get any rest. I’m going to beat it to a hotel and hire a husky guy to rock the bed all night! What do you say to a run up to Cork, fellows?”

“‘Paddy from Ireland, Paddy from Cork, With a hole in his breeches as big as New York,’”

chanted Tommy Truso. “I’m wid yez, byes! Erin go bragh! Come on till we get the first train that do be goin’.”

They set forth, five of them; Steve, Joe, Truso, Higgins and Sam Hearn, all very carefully attired in their best shirts and trousers and caps. And they sang on their way ashore and sang as they made for the station and, later, still sang as they sat in the railway carriage and rolled leisurely north to Queenstown Junction and then past Glounthaune and Little Island and Dunkettle and Tivoli. Of course they travelled first class. “When in Ireland remember you’re an American,” said Higgins.

“True for you, me bye,” agreed Truso. “And be the same token, shpind yer money.” And to set a good example, Truso sought out the guard on arrival and tipped him a perfectly good United States half-dollar, much to his surprise and evident approval. Higgins censured Truso for spending American money when he had English.

“Why didn’t you slip him a couple of shillings, Tommy? He’d have been just as pleased, and you’d have saved your real money.”

“Why, isn’t English money as good as ours?” asked Joe.

“They say so,” replied Higgins doubtfully, “but I’m not sure about it. Anyway, it hasn’t any eagle on it!”

They climbed into a ramshackle outside car, although Steve and Joe would have much preferred to walk, and said so. But Truso reprimanded them sternly. “We’d all rather walk,” he said, “but it isn’t done. The United States Navy, my boy, must uphold the traditions. Let the ‘Limies’ walk, and the Frenchies, but if you come from the little old U.S.A. you’ve got to ride. Cast off, driver! And look out for mines!”

Steve and Joe were, naturally, all eyes, for this was their first visit to Ireland. Hearn had warned them that they’d find Cork uninteresting. “If you’ve ever been in Newark, New Jersey,” said Hearn, “you don’t need to see Cork.” But they didn’t find it uninteresting, for there were many strange features to attract them. Nevertheless, Steve announced that he didn’t believe he would care to live there. There were many sailors and soldiers on the streets: in fact, it would have been difficult to have looked in any direction at any moment from any part of St. Patrick Street and not have seen a uniform. There were British Army officers, khaki clad and flourishing their swagger sticks, British Naval officers, far less “cocky,” it seemed, but equally important looking, privates and Jackies galore, the latter both British and American. And now and then a French sailor, decidedly more picturesque, was sighted. At brief intervals they passed other carriages bearing other parties of men from the American fleet, and then the proper procedure was to cheer at the top of the voice. Doubtless there had been a time when the presence of United States sailors in Cork had awakened interest and, possibly, alarm, but now their wildest and most vociferous cheers caused no apparent surprise or comment.

St. Patrick Street was, the boys decided, “pretty nifty,” but aside from that one thoroughfare there was little to impress them. The smaller streets, more like alleys than streets, were likely to be dirty, and the houses for the most part were depressingly ugly.

“Dublin’s the real town,” said Hearn. “This place is punk.”

There wasn’t much to see, but they saw it in the course of a two-hour ride. It was the driver, a wisp of a man with two pale blue eyes and a wheedling way with him, that suggested a visit to the one historic church that is left in the old city, and so they climbed the hill, pitying the decrepit horse all the while, through slums that, to quote Tommy Truso, had the New York Ghetto backed off the map. St. Anne Shandon wasn’t much to look at, after all, although they found the tall tower, topped with its fish weathervane of some interest, and the fact that Father Prout had found inspiration in the chimes to write “The Bells of Shandon” did not, in Higgins’ opinion, pay for the trip. Back in the heart of the city, they paid off their jarvey, grandly declining to haggle with him over a charge of just thrice the legal fare, and sought dinner.

What impressed the boys most, perhaps, was that, aside from the presence of the soldiers from the garrison and the sailors from the port, one would never have guessed that just across the Channel men were fighting and dying by the thousand. Cork showed no effects of the war. Food was ridiculously cheap, viewed by American standards, and evidently plentiful. There were, of course, plenty of flags flying, but it was apparent that war was the last thought in the minds of the rather colourless inhabitants of that town.

After an excellent dinner they took another car, an “inside car” this time, the difference between inside and outside cars being merely that in the first, one sits over the wheel with his feet hanging down in the centre and in the other he reverses the process. The drive was a pleasant one, and this time their jarvey was no more than a boy and had a loose tongue and a ready wit. Hearn and Higgins had visited the ancient ruins before, but they were new to the others and they fell in love with “The Groves of Blarney” at first sight. They went all over the castle and, you may be sure, didn’t fail to kiss the Blarney stone, each in turn hanging over the old battlement while the others held firmly to his feet. They went back to the city in a “moisture,” as the jarvey called it, although they would have called it a drizzle, and a fairly hard one, and spent the hour before supper in making a tour of the shops. Steve and Joe were for returning to Queenstown for supper, but the others wanted that meal in Cork, and the majority ruled. Also, said Truso, there was a fine movie theatre there, only, he added, “they call it a cinema or something.” So they had supper at a second and smaller hotel and did very well, although the food was neither so well cooked nor so well served as at the first hostelry. But they were hungry and not over-critical.

After supper they asked their way to the theatre and set forth. Perhaps they didn’t follow directions, but in any case they were soon cruising along a dimly lighted street that looked most unpromising. The inhabitants appeared to be all on the sidewalks or in the gutters, and they were an unsavoury lot, the boys thought. It was Hearn who first passed the word that trouble was brewing.

“Get onto the bunch of thugs trailing us,” he said in a low voice. “Me for the bright lights again, fellows. Some of these Sinn Feiners have it in for us Americans good and hard.”

Steve looked back with interest. If those were Sinn Feiners, he thought, they were rather disappointing. There was nothing in the least romantic about the ten or a dozen men who were following them. Save that they were dressed differently――and not nearly so well――they looked very like a group of street-corner loafers at home. Nevertheless, there was something threatening in their appearance, or, perhaps, in the way in which they followed with slouching steps and eyes fixed on the sailors.

“What have they got against us?” asked Steve in surprise.

“They’re agin’ England,” explained Truso, “and pro-German to a man, and now that we’ve joined in with England they don’t love us. Take the first turn, Sam, and let’s get out of this place.”

“Sinn Feiners or no Sinn Feiners,” growled Higgins, “if they get funny with me I’ll knock their blocks off.”

“Yes, you’d have a fine time doing it,” jeered Hearn. “There are nearly a dozen of ’em. Come on around here.”

But the street they entered was less reassuring than they had hoped, a winding, narrow, poorly lighted, cobbled passage, with darkened warehouses on either side.

Hearn, leading the way with Joe, stopped. “This won’t do, my hearties. Let’s turn back and go out the way we came. If those guys make any cracks, get in the first punch. Come on now.”

They swung around and faced the muttering group that had followed them. The unexpected manœuvre caused confusion in their ranks and some backed against the house wall and a few stepped into the street. With a swagger, Hearn led the way past and the others followed. Steve glancing around carelessly began to wish himself safely back on the _Warren_, for the faces that met his in the dim light were frankly, savagely antagonistic. He breathed freer as he put a dozen paces between him and the Sinn Feiners. Tommy Truso was whistling, but for the rest the encounter was made in silence. Here and there, up and down the street, vague figures lounged before the shabby houses, but this end of the thoroughfare was darker and more empty than the other. The five had gone a dozen yards before a sound came from the enemy. Then:

“_Up the Huns!_” cried a hoarse voice, and a stone went past their heads and struck against a house beyond them. Joe started to run, but Hearn’s voice rang out sharply.

“Come back here! Stand up to ’em! The Navy doesn’t run, kid!”

Joe, whose flight had been sheerly impulsive, stopped and stepped back to the others. Another stone flew toward them and the queer cry was repeated from a dozen throats.

“Spread out,” said Hearn softly. “Watch for those stones. Now, then, walk backwards. It’s ‘retreat in good order’ for us, I guess.”

“Retreat nothing!” growled Jack Higgins. “Let’s bust up the Micks! Come on, Sam! Where’s your pep? Rush ’em!” And Higgins suited action to word. The assailants had stopped some twenty yards away and were gathering missiles from the littered street. But when Higgins started toward them they closed their ranks again, and Truso and Steve, who sprang first after their comrade, had a vision of a dark line of swearing, taunting, growling men as they raced to Higgins’ support. Hearn and Joe followed instantly, then Hearn shouted a cheering “Ata boy!” as he ran.

The odds were big, but there was nothing for either Steve or Joe but to do their parts. The Irishman loves a fight, and these glowering, growling men were Irish, and there was no sign of hesitation in the way in which they broke forward toward the foe. But, and this is a lamentable fact, those of them who had seized on stones or sticks forgot to drop them.

“Watch out for rocks, fellows!” bellowed Truso.

Then the trouble began. Steve, trying to remember all the skill he had ever known, engaged the first form that met him. A moment later the street was a battle ground. Two to one was the odds, but there were three at least of the American bluejackets who had long since learned to fight with their fists, while Steve and Joe, although they had had few encounters, at least knew something of the science of the game. Blows fell and were blocked, feet tramped and slipped, grunts and cries filled the air. At first it was a massed melee in which foe struck at foe wherever discerned, but after a moment the battle separated into units. Up the street came, at first a dribble and then a stream of spectators. But they were not all spectators, either, for more than one of the newcomers leaped into the fray and took sides with their compatriots. Cries of “Kill the Americans!”, “Up the Huns!” broke out. Steve, caught under the jaw by a powerful fist, stumbled and went back on the pavement. Instantly a foe was on him, astride his chest, and blows were being rained at his face. Steve struggled and kicked and finally pulled his antagonist forward and managed to get an arm around his neck. Then, with short-arm jabs, they fought for each other’s head. Struggling forms stamped about them and once someone stepped on Steve’s ankle and fell, sprawling to the ground. Then came a rallying cry from Sam Hearn:

“_Warren_ this way!”

Steve somehow squirmed from beneath his adversary and rolled aside, springing the next instant to his feet. Hearn and at least one other of his crowd had backed against the house wall and were managing to hold the enemy at arm’s length. Steve could see more than one club waving in the air, while at the further side of the street, inside the fringe of shouting spectators, new recruits to the Sinn Fein ranks were groping along the gutter for missiles. Near at hand a swaying bunch of four figures parted for an instant and Steve caught a glimpse of Truso fighting fiercely against a trio of the foe. Steve darted forward and swung his fist and the nearest of the three doubled up at the knees and fell in a heap. At the same moment Truso, wrenching free from the grasp of a big, round-faced lad, struck out straight and another fell.

[Illustration: Steve darted forward and swung his fist]

“Come on!” cried Steve. “Get to the wall, Truso!”

“Hello!” gasped the other. “All right. I’m with you!”

But it was no easy task, for three of the enemy engaged them, and they were separated from Hearn and the others by more. The latter, however, were giving their attention to the three against the wall, and at last, bruised and breathless, they plunged through the enemy and lined up with their comrades. Higgins was a madman. Steve had never seen anyone fight as he fought there in that illy-lighted Cork street, his back to the wall. His fists shot back and forth like machinery, and all the time he kept up a steady flow of taunts:

“Come on, you scum! Where’s the next nose? Sinn Feiners are you? All right, you dirty blackguards, take that! _Now_ cheer for Germany!”

At any other time Steve would have laughed, but just now he was much too busy. If the enemy had numbered a dozen at the start, it now numbered twice that many. Their antagonists were three deep in front of them, and only the fact that they had their backs to the wall and so need meet attack from only one quarter saved them from serious injury that night. Hearn’s “Ata boy! Give it to ’em!” arose above the tumult. Steve caught a swift glimpse of Joe, pale, bleeding at the nose, fighting steadily beyond Hearn. Then Higgins, at Steve’s left, groaned and slid gently down to the pavement, and Steve, with a maddened growl, stepped astride him and planted bleeding knuckles in the soft face of a squat Irishman. But the fight couldn’t go on much longer, and they all realised it. The odds were ridiculous now. At intervals a stone or block of wood struck the wall above them and fell with unpleasant effect.

“Shall we――make a run――for it?” gasped Truso.

“We can’t,” answered Steve. “Higgins is laid out. I’m――standing over――him. Aren’t there――any cops in――this town?”

A blow got past Steve’s guard and sent his head back against the wall and he saw a million stars. He couldn’t fight any longer, he told himself dazedly. But he did, although weakly. And then, when it seemed that he would just have to drop on top of Higgins and go to sleep, a cheer arose above the tumult and the onlookers were swept aside as a half-dozen bluejackets raced on the scene.

Chapter X

The Allies Triumph

With joyous shouts the rescuers fell upon the enemy’s rear. Taken by surprise, the Sinn Feiners found themselves between two fires, for Steve, Joe, Truso and Hearn put new life into their blows, while the newcomers set to work with a fine enthusiasm. Pandemonium reigned supreme for a brief space and then the tide of battle turned. The more recent recruits to the Sinn Fein ranks turned and fled precipitately, while the onlookers, discerning the outcome of the engagement, began to cheer the sailors. The original attacking party fought valiantly and desperately, but they had not escaped punishment and were unable to cope with the reinforcements. Down they went, one after another, or, turning to defensive tactics, retreated across the street in the hope of finding escape through the circle of spectators. But the rescue party was having too good a time to lose their prey so easily, and when, a scant three minutes after their arrival, the battle was won, the foe, almost to a man, was accounted for. And it was not until then that the rescued ones made the discovery that their new friends were not countrymen, after all, but British bluejackets!

_H.M.S. Challenge_ said their cap ribbons.

“Well, I’m blowed!” exclaimed Hearn. “Much obliged, Limies. They had us going when you broke up the party.”

“The dirty thraitors!” responded one of the rescuers in a fine, rich brogue. “Sure, it’s been a dale of pleasure we’ve had, my friend. And I’m thinking ’twas a lucky job we came along. What’s your ship, boys?”

“_Warren_, destroyer.”

“I know the _Warren_,” spoke up a smaller chap with a pronounced Cockney twang. “She was in Plymouth when we were there larst month.”

The onlookers had gathered around the victors, displaying a scant concern for the vanquished who, picking themselves up from the cobbles, vanished most unobtrusively. Steve administered to Higgins as best he could and was quickly rewarded by a groan from his prostrate comrade. Then Higgins opened his eyes――or one of them, for the other didn’t respond to the effort――and looked dazedly about him.

“Hello,” he muttered. “I’m all right now. Give me a hand.”

Steve obeyed and Higgins came to his feet, swayed dizzily and then, with a bellow, made for the crowd, fists up. But Steve clutched him and held him back. “They’re gone, Higgins,” he cried. “It’s all over. Some Britishers butted in and――――”

“Gone!” exclaimed Higgins in heart-broken tones. “Gone? The dirty cowards! Where’d they go?” He looked about him eagerly, but Steve, laughing, although it hurt him horribly to do it, pulled him toward the others.

“We’d best get out o’ this before they rouse their friends and come back again,” one of the British bluejackets was saying. “Come on, Yankees. What was you doing up this here alley, anyhow?”

“Looking for the movie house,” said Truso. “We lost our way somehow.”

“Rather! You’re near a mile from a theatre. I say, old pal, you need patchin’ up a bit, the whole bloomin’ lot of you. There’s a bit of a hotel down the road a way, ain’t there, Bill?”

“There is. Come on, fellows. I’ll show you the w’y.”

They pushed past the gathering which, now of considerable size, was loudly sympathetic in its comments, and trailed by a dozen or more boys whose curiosity was still unsatisfied, retraced their steps for several blocks and then swung into a wider thoroughfare and, guided by the small cockney whose sleeve insignia showed him to be a gunner’s mate, presently reached a small hotel. Inside they took stock of their casualties. None of the five had escaped visible mementos of the engagement. Higgins, with one eye almost completely closed and a deep gash on his cheek which, as Hearn observed, could never have been made by a bare fist, was the most disreputable looking of them all, but everyone showed one or more contusions. Joe’s lip was bleeding profusely, Steve had a lump on his forehead and a swollen mouth, Truso had a nose that was already nearly twice its normal size and Hearn had a lump on his forehead as large as a small egg. These, together with swollen and bleeding knuckles, were the visible signs of the recent combat, but there were sore spots that didn’t show, and Steve, although he made no mention of it, felt as if his head was inhabited by a swarm of bees! Nor had their allies escaped punishment, for the Irishman proudly displayed a fine long gash on a cheek bone, the Cockney was already peering with difficulty from his left eye and one of the others had a swollen jaw. Hearn and Truso had lost their caps and the attire of all had been roughly used.

The _Challenge_ men performed like Red Cross nurses, commandeering the services of the host and his buxom wife and all the supplies on hand, which, fortunately included arnica. Wounds were bathed and bound up and swollen hands were swathed in bandages, and presently, having abandoned the idea of moving pictures in favour of taking the next train to Queenstown, they all made their way to the station.

“’Tain’t the first time,” informed one of the _Challenge’s_ men. “Only larst week a lot of us was up here and had a set-to with a bunch of them scoundrels. They heaved stones at us, first off, and we didn’t pay any attention to them for a bit. They were marchin’ along with their flags and banners quiet enough till they seen us. Then ’twas ‘Up the Huns!’, whatever they might mean by that, and they started heavin’ stones at us. We’ve orders to keep out o’ trouble, of course, and so we ducked for the shops and got inside. But when they started heaving bricks through the windows it wasn’t fair to the shopkeepers and so we went outside again. ’Twas a Saturday night and so there was a lot of us around and it wasn’t long before we was having a rare old time of it. It wasn’t ’arf lively for awhile! Then the Bobbies took a ’and, and the provost guard from the garrison came along and we called it off. There was more than one Sinn Fein head broken, I’m thinking.”

At the station they found a crowd of their own compatriots and as many from the British ships waiting for the train, and their advent was hailed with shouts of approval and expressions of envy. A big, raw-boned boatswain’s mate from the _Cassin_ was all for returning to the scene of trouble and inviting renewed hostilities, and his companions had difficulty in persuading him to board the train. On the way back “Yankees” and “Limies” mingled and fraternised, and there was much vocal harmony and a great deal of noise, all of which stood for good-fellowship. Steve and Joe tried to do their share of the singing, if only for the honour of the United States Navy, but the effort was far too painful. Before eleven, having parted from their friends of the _Challenge_ with hand-shakes and renewed expressions of gratitude, they were back on the _Warren_ relating their adventures to a small but attentive audience grouped about Number Two gun.

In the morning they had to face authority in the persons of the officers, and they were a bit doubtful of the result. But, save for stern disapproval, that melted to amusement when they had passed, there came no sign from the Old Man or the luffs. About the middle of the forenoon a French destroyer, one of the “Harlequin Fleet,” came limping into harbour with her port bow badly stove in. She passed close to starboard of the _Warren_ and the captain of the latter hailed through the megaphone in his choicest French. Those on the deck grinned as the Frenchie’s commander, gesticulating regret, even despair from the bridge, responded in excellent English: “Pardon, sair! A thousand pardons! I deed not understand what monsieur ask.”

Browny, machinist’s mate, second class, guffawed and had to stuff his cap in his mouth. On the bridge Captain Stanwood coloured, and then, with a smile for the joke on his pronunciation, politely repeated his question.

“No, no,” responded the French officer, leaning far over the rail and expressing denial with head and hands and shoulders. “We ware not torpedoed, sair! We were collisioned by a――a――what you say?――a――――” His voice grew fainter as the distance between the destroyers lengthened and the listeners thought they were doomed to never know what had happened to the fantastically decorated French ship. But after another moment of agonised effort on the part of her commander the completion of the sentence floated across the water:

“By a r-r-rottan _chasseur_! Merci, m’sieur!”

“What’s a _rotan shasur_?” demanded Smitty disappointedly.

“Rotten chaser, of course,” giggled a neighbour. “Where’s your French, you ignoramus?”

“Say,” observed a tall chap with the crossed quills of a yeoman, “if Frenchie gets as excited as that in telling the yarn what do you suppose he was like when the chaser hit him?”

That afternoon the _Warren_ slipped out to sea again, followed by a sister ship, and zig-zagged her way through the mine field. Sealed orders had come aboard, so the rumour went, and they were off for “special duty” and wouldn’t see port again for a week. There was some grumbling over shortened leave and a vast amount of conjecture as to their errand. Hopeful ones guessed a rendezvous with the British North Sea fleet for an attack on the German naval base at Zeebrugge, the pessimists a return to American waters. The next morning, however, it was plain that the North Sea was not their destination, for the compass showed the _Warren_ headed east, while, ahead and astern, Steve counted five more destroyers tossing spray from their knife-like bows. It was standard speed all that day and for two days and nights following. The weather was of the kindest, and the _Warren_, try as she might, could not roll enough to make her happy. Joe, still fearful on leaving Queenstown, gradually plucked up hope. Save for a qualm or two the first evening he felt no indications of seasickness and began to get a bit cocky about it. The destroyers steamed in column of two sections, with the flagship leading the _Warren_. All day signals fluttered and the wireless sputtered. Higgins, supposed to know a vast deal of what was in the wind, only grinned and shook his head.

The single event to jar the monotony of steady steaming occurred the second night out. That was fairly exciting, for the General Quarters alarm sounded just before midnight, and Steve, warmly tucked in his bunk and sleeping beautifully, reached the deck half-awake with the sensations of one aroused by an especially strident alarm-clock. But the affair was a good deal of a disappointment, for after Number Four gun had barked once――fortunately missing its mark――the supposed Hun proved to be a British steam trawler who had been slow in answering questions! “Missed us!” she signalled. “Now