"The shrine of each patriot's devotion,A world offers homage to thee,"
continued Sam Hickey, his red flag flashing up and down forming the letters of the code with such swiftness that few of the officers were able to follow.
"Thy mandates make heroes assemble,When Liberty's form stands in view;Thy banners make tyranny tremble,When borne by the red, white and blue."
The instant Dan's swift strokes with flag had ended the verse, both the Battleship Boys swung into the chorus,
"When borne by the red, white and blue,When borne by the red, white and blue,Thy banners make tyranny tremble,When borne by the red, white and blue."
"Thirty-three, thirty-three," finished the lads, bringing the butts of their flag staffs to the deck with a click that sounded as one.
A perfect storm of applause from the officers rewarded the splendid performance of the Battleship Boys. The jackies on the deck, though few of them had been able to make out the message, the words of the beautiful anthem, realized that they were watching the work of two masters with the wig-wag flags, so they, too, added their quota to the applause. They did not do so by hand applause. The jackies threw up their hats and set up a loud cheer.
"The most remarkable performance of its kind that I ever saw," announced the captain.
"I never saw anything like it myself," agreed the executive officer. "It's lucky we happened to think of those boys."
"Indeed it is."
"Anything further, sir?" questioned Dan, saluting.
"That will be sufficient. Thank you, my lads."
The boys saluted, then marched from the forecastle, proud and happy, but not forgetting their dignity in their excitement and pleasure.
"Three cheers for the Battleship Boys," shouted one of the bluejackets the instant the officers had left the bridge. "Hurrah for little Dynamite!" That last was Dan's nickname. And the cheers were given with a will.
By this time every officer and man on the battleship "Long Island" knew Dan Davis and Sam Hickey by name as well as by sight. But the lads bore their honors well. Neither of the boys sought to take advantage of the favor he had gained. If anything, the boys toiled harder than ever. They worked with the formidable seven-inch gun during all the hours that were allotted to this work.
During the rest hour Dan and his companion would ordinarily be found in the turret, examining the gun and its carriage, quizzing each other to test their knowledge, committing to memory the name and use of every part of these complicated instruments of war.
Late one afternoon, when the men were supposed to be at play on the forward deck, the captain was passing through on his way to his quarters, when he heard voices in the turret and peered in there.
He saw Dan and Sam stripped to their undershirts, working the big gun and going through with their own examination. Dan was trying to explain to his companion the theory and practice of range-finding—learning the distance and location of the enemy. From that they drifted into the question of sighting the big guns, elevation and other technical subjects beyond their years and experience.
The ship's commander smiled proudly. After a few moments of listening, he stepped inside.
"Well, lads, do you never rest?" he questioned, in a kindly tone, for the commanding officer of the "Long Island" was a humane man, one who had the interests of his men at heart to a degree possessed by few commanding officers in the service.
The lads saluted but made no reply, as an answer was not expected to the question.
"Are you studying—I mean in books?"
"Yes, sir," replied Dan.
"Where do you get your books?"
"From the ship's library, sir."
"I am afraid you are in need of some more advanced works than you will find in the crew's library. If you will come to my quarters, this evening after your mess, I will see what I can find for you. I think I have some books that will be of use to you. By the way, I heard you mention electricity once or twice. Do you know anything about that branch?"
"A little, sir, but we are studying that as well," Dan replied.
"From books?"
"Oh, yes, sir. Besides this we are taking a course in electricity with a correspondence school."
The eyes of the commanding officer twinkled.
"You are two very industrious boys. I am afraid not many of our boys are following your example."
"Quite a few of them are, sir."
"May I ask what you are seeking to accomplish?"
Dan glanced up inquiringly.
"I mean as to the future. What do you hope to do with yourself?" asked the captain.
"Naturally, sir, I hope to gain promotion when I have earned it," was Dan's answer.
"Ah, yes; to be sure. You have ambitions to become petty officers. Well, your prospects are good, young men, if you keep on in that way you have been going. You will come below for the books as I suggested, will you not?"
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir."
"As I have said before, whenever you wish advice or assistance, come to me, through your immediate superiors, and you will find me ever ready to aid you."
"Thank you, sir," acknowledged the boys, in chorus. The captain saluted in answer to theirs; then, turning on his heel, left the turret.
"That's what I call a right smart gentleman," announced Sam Hickey, with an emphatic nod of the head.
"The captain is a magnificent man. We are lucky, old fellow, in being under such a commander. I'd face powder and bullets any day for him."
"Say, Dan."
"Yes."
"He invited us to call on him, didn't he?"
"Well, yes; something like that, though not in a social sense. That would be impossible."
Sam pondered.
"Do you know I'd give a month's pay if the rest of the bunch could see me sitting in one of those mahogany chairs in the Old Man's quarters, with my feet on his dining room table."
"Sam Hickey, I am ashamed of you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, to say a thing like that! Suppose the commanding officer had overheard those words, instead of what he did overhear. What would you have done then?"
"What would I have done? Why, I'd have slipped out through the gun port, and left you to square things with him," answered the resourceful Sam.
"You're hopeless," muttered Dan. "And, another thing, before you talk of giving a month's pay remember that you have nearly a month's pay charged against you for the loss of the tompion."
"That's so. I'm going to ask the captain about that. Maybe, when he hears my side of the case, he will remit the fine. It's a shame to make me pay it."
"Don't be a baby. Be a man and take your medicine like a man," advised Dan, as he pulled on his jacket and prepared to leave the turret.
That evening they reported at the captain's quarters, as they had been directed. While, in this instance, the lads remained standing, their commanding officer talked with them as if they were really his equals; that is, as if there were no social barriers erected between them.
The longer they remained in the service the more the Battleship Boys came to realize that the gulf between officers and men was not nearly so wide as it had been painted. The officer worked by the side of his men in the grime and dirt, and at all times made the comfort of the jackies his personal care. Strict forms, however, had to be lived up to for the sake of discipline.
On the following morning, when the two boys reported to turret number four, where they were stationed, the gun captain lined up his men and looked them over after roll call.
"What we need in this crew, just now, is gun pointers. Those of you who have tried that work aren't worth the powder to blow you through a ventilator. What we are going to do I'll confess I don't know. Here we are, within four weeks of battle practice, and not one of you could sight a gun so that it would send a ball through a barn if the barn were leaned up against the muzzle. Do any of you who haven't tried think you can sight a seven-inch gun!"
"I used to shoot woodchucks with a shotgun, sir," Sam Hickey informed the gun captain.
The gun crew laughed loudly.
"Bosh!" exploded the gun captain.
"I can shoot, sir," insisted Sam.
"I'd be afraid to have you get near a bag of powder with that fiery head. It's a wonder you don't blow up with spontaneous combustion. You will, one of these times, if you don't look sharp."
A pugnacious look flashed into Sam Hickey's eyes, but he dared not make a retort to the gun captain.
"Davis, do you think you could learn to sight a gun?"
"Yes, sir; I think so."
"You'll get the chance. We will give you a try-out this morning. All hands line up for dotter practice."
"What's dotter practice?" asked Sam.
"Sh-h-h," warned Dan. "Haven't you learned what that is yet?"
"No."
"Dotter practice is target work in miniature. Listen! The gun captain is going to explain it to us."
"Some of you understand the dotter," began the gun captain. "For the benefit of those of you who do not I will explain. The dotter is a little contrivance on the gun, which enables you to shoot at a target and proves your marksmanship. By looking through the finder you will see a little target that moves up and down like a ship at sea. When the crossed wires of your finder are right on the target you pull the trigger. A black spot will appear on the target—a dot, showing where your shot struck if you have hit the target at all. We call it a dotter because it makes a dot where it hits."
"And the dotter makes you dotty," muttered Sam under his breath, yet loudly enough so that the man next to him heard it. The fellow laughed aloud, bringing down a sharp rebuke from the gun captain.
"Hickey, try your hand at the dotter."
Sam climbed up to the little platform on the right side of the gun, winking at his companions as he did so.
"What shall I do now?" he questioned, taking his place.
"Sight through the finder. I'll set the target going."
"Yes, I see it. I'm afraid that thing will make me seasick if I keep on looking at it," declared Hickey, looking up at the instructor.
"Attend to your practice!"
"Bang!"
Sam leaped up into the air. His head came into violent contact with the deck above him.
"Ouch!" yelled the red-headed boy, as he collapsed in a heap on the deck.
Sam had unwittingly pulled the trigger, firing the cap that bad been provided to explode the dotter, thus making the miniature target work the more realistic.
"Did something hit me? I—I thought the seven-inch had gone off," stammered the boy, pulling himself to his feet and rubbing his head where it had hit the ceiling.
"Just like a landlubber," growled the gun captain. "You'll make a fine gun pointer, you will."
"I—I didn't know the thing was going off," complained Hickey.
"I suppose, if we were to fire the piece in earnest, you would jump overboard," sneered the captain. "Get up there, now, and do it right, if you want to stay in this division."
Sam took his place once more, the gun captain giving him suggestions and directions as to how to catch the moving target when it was moving upward as a ship does in riding a great swell.
"Bang!"
Sam had pulled the trigger, but this time he had done so intentionally. Instinctively the lad jumped, grinning sheepishly as he noted the smiles on the faces of his companions of the gun crew.
"Well, what is your score?"
"Score?"
"Yes. Did you hit the target?"
"I don't know."
"Look at the target."
"I see a fly speck over by the edge of the target," spoke up Sam.
"That is where your shot struck. Had you been shooting at a battleship you might have raked her stern, but I reckon you would not have done her very great damage. However, it was not a half-bad shot for a landlubber. Number three, take your place."
The man indicated made an even worse shot than had Hickey, though he had been practising with the dotter for three weeks.
"You never will do at this work," decided the gun captain. "About all you will be good for will be to clean bright work and pass along ammunition. Davis, let's see what you can do."
Dan was all expectation. He could hardly wait for his turn at the gun.
"You understand how to work it?"
"I think so."
"Take your time. Make sure of your mark, then let go quickly. You will find in actual target work, or in shooting at an enemy, that a fraction of a second's delay will ordinarily roll the target out of your range. Better to shoot a second too soon than a second too late."
Dan was peering through the sights, his eye fixed on the pin-head opening. One hand crept slowly to the trigger. It rested there for a few seconds without a tremor. His nerves were steady and true.
"Bang!"
"What luck?"
"Squarely in the center. That's what I should call a bull's eye," announced Dan Davis triumphantly. "Am I right, sir?"
"Yes; you hit the mark all right. It may have been a chance shot."
"I think not, sir. I will see if I can do it again."
Dan applied his eye to the finder. An instant's hesitation, then there followed the sharp report of the dotter.
"Once more in the center, sir. Shall I fire again?"
"No. You've sunk the ship, young man. You have put the enemy out of business. You are not only going to make a splendid gunner, but you are far above the average already."
Ere Dan could express his thanks the bugle blew, piping gun crews down to other duties.
The "Long Island" was still lying inside the breakwater when the lads were piped to their gun station the following morning.
"Seaman Dan Davis and Sam Hickey will hereafter act as gun pointers in number four turret," said the gun captain. "You will get your rating badges at the canteen, meaning the ship's storeroom. See that you have them before the afternoon practice at four bells."
The Battleship Boys looked at each other triumphantly, and Sam winked wisely at his companion. How the lads did go through their work that day, performing each duty with a snap that drew nods of approval from the gun captain and wondering looks from their companions.
After the noon meal they hastened to the canteen, where they procured the rating badges. This was a square of blue cloth on which was a white circle with two fine lines drawn across the circle at right angles to each other, representing the crossed sights such as one finds in a telescope rifle.
The boys lost no time in sewing them on their sleeves, after which they paraded the forward deck, doing their best to look unconcerned. Their efforts in this direction were failures.
"Hello, Dynamite! I see you've got your hash marks," greeted a companion.
"Oh, you mean this," answered Dan, with glowing face, as he held up his arm.
"I've got one, too, even if I couldn't hit the side of a barn," spoke up the red-headed Hickey. "I told the captain of number four how I had plugged woodchucks back home, though, and I guess that convinced him that I could shoot big guns."
"Say, Hickey, speaking of hash marks, have you got any on you yet?"
"I'm just telling you I have one here. I'm a gun pointer. If you don't believe it, come over to the turret and I'll point one at you. It'll make you jump when the pop-gun goes off, I'll bet."
"No, no; I don't mean that kind of a hash mark," laughed his companion.
"What kind, then?"
"Tattoo marks. We call them hash marks."
"I get tattooed—is that what you mean?"
"Of course; every sailor—every real sailor—has that done."
"What for?"
"Just to be the real thing; that's all."
"I don't know. I hadn't thought of it."
"I'll take you over to Needle Johnson, if you want to have it done."
"Well, I don't know," reflected Sam. "Does it hurt?"
"Of course it doesn't. You will not even feel it. Doesn't hurt half as much as the sting of a Jersey mosquito."
"I'll go and talk with What's-his-name——"
"Needle Johnson."
"Yes. Where's Dan?"
"I think he has gone below. You come along, and he'll be surprised and envious when he finds you have had the job done," continued the boy's shipmate with a wink at some of the others standing by.
Sam somewhat reluctantly followed the jackie below, where, after some searching about, they finally located Needle Johnson. Needle was an old-time sea dog, wearing a heavy crop of whiskers and with a voice that would have done credit to a boatswain's mate.
"Here's a lad who hasn't had a hash mark put on his skin, and he's been on board for three months."
Needle gazed at the red-headed boy pityingly.
"You don't mean it?"
"Yes. I told him he wouldn't be a real sailor until he had some paint stuck under his hide."
"That's the sure thing, my lad, and I'm the salt that can give you the purtiest hashings you ever set eyes on. Where did you reckon you wanted the marks put?"
"I hadn't reckoned anything about it. I guess I don't want any of those hash marks, as you call them," Sam returned.
"What? Not want them? Of course you do."
Sam reflected a moment, then gave a reluctant consent.
"What kind of a tattoo would you suggest?"
"A pig's foot, by all means, matey. That's the latest and most fashionable decoration that a gentleman can wear. How'll you have it!"
"I'll take mine pickled, if it's all the same to you," answered Sam soberly.
The jackies roared.
"What do you take me for—a sea-cook?" growled Johnson. "Take off your right shoe if you want to do business with me."
"What for?"
"For the hash. You wouldn't have a pig's foot anywhere else, would you?"
"I—I don't know."
"That's the only place to put it, and it will bring you luck."
In the meantime Needle Johnson had gotten out his case of needles and his coloring matter.
"You are sure it won't hurt?" asked Sam.
"You won't feel a thing. Now, hold perfectly still. If you jerked, or anything, I might make a pig's tail instead of a pig's foot. That would be tough, wouldn't it, matey?"
"It might be tough for you. Ou-u-u-uch!"
Sam Hickey's foot came up with such suddenness that Needle was unable to dodge it. The foot caught Needle fairly on the nose, bowling him over to the deck, while all hands were shrieking with delight over his discomfiture.
"What—what do you mean, you—you lubber?" demanded Needle angrily, rubbing the injured member, then shaking a fist under the red-headed boy's nose.
"You—you said it wouldn't hurt."
"Hurt nothing!"
"I should say it did hurt. What are you trying to do—drill a hole all the way through my foot? I don't want any hash marks. I'll get along with just my natural skin, whether I have any luck or not. Give me that shoe."
"Say, fellows," spoke up a jackie. "I reckon Red-head had better have a pig's foot, eh!"
"You bet he had," chorused the others.
"And he won't do it of his own free will."
"So he says."
"Then it seems to be our solemn duty to take the job into our own hands, does it not, mates?"
"It is."
"All right, then. Seaman Hickey, do we get it straight that you defy the rules of our profession by refusing to wear the badge of that profession?"
"Call it what you want to. I'm not going to have any heathen rites performed over me, or my skin pricked full of holes."
"Then, shipmate, you'll have to take your medicine. Jump on him, boys!"
Black and White, the two Hawaiians who had been standing by grinning, made a concerted rush for Hickey. He wheeled just as they threw themselves upon him. But the Pacific Islanders were reckoning without the cost.
"So that's the game, is it?" gritted Sam.
Grabbing Black by the collar and one leg, he pitched the fellow half way across the deck, standing the Hawaiian on his head. White followed. He, too, was sailing through the air before Black struck. Both landed on the same spot, and instantly were fighting each other in their efforts to get clear.
But the admiring jackies had no time to spare. They would have liked nothing better than to have let that affair go on to a finish. Instead, the whole crowd, fifteen or twenty of them, fell upon the red-haired boy, hand and foot. Sam went down in a heap. He was not angry, but he was giving these fellows all they wanted in their attempts to hold him down.
"Grab the foot!" shouted one.
The jackie did so, but was promptly knocked over by a kick on the nose, causing that member to bleed freely.
This time two sailors grasped the Battleship Boy's naked foot and straightened it out.
"Get your tools out, Needle. Here's your foot."
Despite their efforts, the foot was working back and forth so fast that Johnson was unable to do anything with it.
"Pass a rope around it. That's the way we used to rope cattle out west. That's the idea."
A line was passed about Hickey's ankle and made fast to a stanchion.
"All right, Needle, drive the color in deep, so it won't wash out."
"Give him two pig's feet," suggested another. "He'll have better luck if you do."
"I'll trim the whole bunch of you for this," growled a voice from the bottom of the pile.
The jackies laughed loudly.
"Me fix him, me fix him," snarled Black, at that instant jumping into the pile, his face contorted with rage.
"You get out and mind your own business," advised one of the men. "You got yours; now run along and be good. Take your white friend along with you, while you are about it, or we'll paint both of you."
While this conversation was going on Johnson was plying his needle industriously, and under his hand Sam Hickey's foot was undergoing a great change. Little by little the outline of a pig's foot was appearing. The pig's foot was done in red, while the toe nails of the foot were in blue.
"There; you can let the broncho up now," announced Johnson, after putting the final touches to his artistic achievement.
The sailors piled off, while one of their number released the rope that held the foot. Sam struggled to a sitting posture, much the worse for wear, his hair standing up, his clothes soiled and disordered. But it was the foot that attracted his attention. He surveyed it dubiously, then his eyes wandered about the circle of laughing faces.
Sam grinned a sheepish grin.
"Fellows, you've insulted an officer and a gentleman, and I've got to get even with you—no; I'll have you before the mast, every one of you, so——"
All hands began grunting in imitation of a herd of pigs.
"I see I am not the only pig in the sty, after all," announced Seaman Hickey cuttingly, as he calmly began pulling on his shoe over the sore foot.
"Colors! Fall in for colors!" shouted petty officers in different parts of the ship as the bugle blew its warning notes.
Sam Hickey limped into place with the gun squad, and awaited the order to march.
"Colors," means the formalities that are observed at sunset on shipboard, consisting of impressive ceremonies when the Stars and Strips are lowered from the after flagstaff. The ceremony of colors, however, is never observed when the ship is under motion, but only when the vessel is at anchor.
Just before the moment when the sun was to set, the different divisions, in charge of midshipmen and ensigns, were marched to the quarterdeck with measured step; then, facing toward amidships, they banked themselves on each side of the deck. Behind the jackies, next to the starboard and port rails, were the marines, carrying their rifles.
Grouped aft on the starboard side was the band, its members resplendent in white and gold uniforms.
Between these lines of color stood the captain and his executive officer, facing the Flag that was lazily fluttering in the soft evening breeze.
All was silence, the only sound being the water lapping the steel sides of the battleship.
"Attention!"
The bugle blew a few short notes. The Flag began creeping slowly down the after flagstaff, with every eye fixed on the ensign as it fluttered toward the deck.
Instantly upon the Flag's reaching the deck, the band broke forth into "The Star Spangled Banner." The hearts of the Battleship Boys swelled with patriotism, and the strains of the national anthem seemed to bring a deeper shade to the rows of tanned, manly faces lined up in solid ranks on the quarter-deck of the battleship "Long Island."
"Attention! First division, right face! Forward march!"
The command was repeated for the other divisions. Snare drums rolled, the band changed to a livelier tune, to which each division marched off in steady lines, one division following the other. Soon all had disappeared, save a group of officers who remained chatting on the quarter-deck. These, too, soon turned and went below for the evening mess.
The day's work was done for all except those who were to go on watch duty for a two-hour trick.
Mess finished, Sam went out to the forward deck to growl at the jackies who had been responsible for the pig's foot on his own right foot. The pig's foot hurt him, and the lad limped painfully.
While Sam was forward Dan got out his ditty box, to which, by this time, he had become as much attached as were the other sailors to theirs. From the box he drew a recent letter from his mother, which the Battleship Boy, sitting on the steel deck under a wall lamp in a corridor, read over several times. It seemed a long time to Dan since he had left her at Piedmont, and had gone on to New York to enlist in the service of his country.
"I think I must know this letter by heart," mused Dan, folding the letter and tenderly laying it away in the precious ditty box. Then, fixing up his fountain pen, he began writing industriously, using his elevated knees for a desk, on which he had laid his writing pad.
"I have written in more comfortable places than this, but I never had more to say than I have this time," he said.
Mails were not very regular on shipboard, and sometimes it was a matter of weeks before a single mail was put over the side.
Dan was still writing, an hour later, when Sam came along looking for him.
"Oh, here you are, eh?"
"Yes."
"Writing a book?"
"No, I'm writing to mother. Is there any word you would like to send to the folks at Piedmont?"
"You might say hello to Mrs. Davis for me. If they'd let a fellow change his mind in this business, you'd see me back there to-morrow. What are you writing to her?"
Dan smiled quizzically.
"If it were anyone else who asked me that question I might tell him it was none of his business."
"But you don't dare tell me that, hey?"
"Maybe, Sam," answered Dan with a good-natured laugh.
"All right; what you are telling her?"
"Want to know very much?"
"I shouldn't have asked you if I didn't."
"Very well; I'll tell you, You know I have something more than two hundred dollars laid up with the paymaster——"
"Yes; aren't you afraid the Jack-o'-the-Dust will run away with it?"
"Hardly. Even if he does, the Government would make the amount good."
"What you going to do with the money?"
"I was about to tell you. That is what I am writing to mother about. I am sending the money to her."
"All of it?" interrupted Sam.
"Yes, of course. Why not?"
"You're a good sport, you are."
"I am telling her to go buy a lot out on the Perkins road. That amount will just about purchase one. Then, as fast as I earn more money, I tell her, I will send it to her, and by next summer she will have enough to go on and build a house. Mother will have a home of her own then, and I'll feel much better when she has."
"How much does a house cost in that neck-o'-the-woods?"
"Well, I should say that eight hundred dollars will put up a very fair place. At least, it will satisfy us. Why do you ask?"
"I was thinking. Say, did you hear about my pig's foot?"
"Your pig's foot?"
"Yes."
"I don't know what you mean."
"I've got one on my right foot."
"I haven't the least idea what you are talking about."
"You would have, if you'd got a pig's foot. It's a lot different from a rabbit's foot, and don't you make any mistake about that."
"Somebody gave you a pig's foot, for luck, eh? I never heard they were lucky."
"Oh, yes; they gave it to me, all right. Here, look at this."
Sam pulled off a shoe and stocking, exhibiting his freshly tattooed foot.
"Well, what do you think of that?" marveled Dan.
"Not much," growled Sam.
"Who did it?"
"Old Pin Head—No, I mean old Needle Johnson."
"Why did you let him do that, Sam?"
"Let him? I didn't. The whole forecastle sat on me, and tied my foot up to a stanchion, while the head butcher performed the operation. I can hardly walk. But I forgot to tell you. Those black-faced fellows from the other side of the world sailed into me as if they wanted to eat me up. I don't like that pair a little bit, Dan."
"Imagination, Sam. Just because they are a little darker than we are, you do not like them. That is foolish."
"That's just the trouble. If it was only skin deep I wouldn't give a rap. The trouble with those fellows is that the black goes all the way through. I'll bet they are black clear to the bones. If Pills ever has to cut either of them open for anything I'm going to take a peek."
"I am surprised at you, Sam," chided Davis.
"You needn't be. You'll find, one of these days, that I am right. But how about that house and lot?"
"If you keep on talking to me, hammocks will be piped up before I finish my letter."
"Go on with your writing. I'm mum." Sam sat down and was soon lost in deep thought.
"There," announced Dan finally. "I guess that's all I can write to-night. I've done eight pages. That's pretty good for a sailor."
"I never wrote as much as that in all my life—that is, I never wrote as much as that in letters. Say, Dan."
"Yes."
"Do you mind if I say a few words to Mother Davis at the end of your letter!"
"Of course, you may. Mother will be delighted."
"All right. You go outside and take a walk for your health. I can't write with anybody looking at me. It makes me nervous."
"Too bad about your sensitive nerves," retorted the other with a laugh. "All right; I'll go out. Do not be long, for it is nearly hammock time."
Leaving Sam grumbling about having to go to bed at nine o'clock, Dan strolled out on the deck.
"Dear Mother Davis," began Sam, "I want to tell you that your Dan isn't the only jackie who has money. I've got two hundred dollars, too. But I haven't any mother. The two hundred isn't any good to me. I've been thinking of giving it to the government some of these times, for they could use it where it would do some good. I've got a new idea, now. I'm going to send the two hundred to you, along with Dan's. You start that house right away, and, by the time all the money is used up, Dan and I will have some more for you. We're getting too rich. If Dan kicks about it, you know how to stop him. P. S. I'm a real sailor, now. I've got a rating and a pig's foot. The rating made me glad, but the pig's foot hurt worse than having a tooth pulled. Lovingly, Sam."
Leaving Sam in the throes of composition, Dan walked out on deck. A few moments later he uttered a sharp exclamation and clapped a hand to his left ear, through which he felt a sudden, sharp pain. As he brought the hand away, the fingers felt wet.
Dan stepped up under a port light that opened out to the deck, and, holding up the fingers, peered at them.
"Blood, eh! Well, that's funny. Something must have hit me."
He glanced about him. He was almost alone; there were not a half dozen sailors on deck, and these lay stretched out, sleeping soundly in the cool evening air.
"That is strange," wondered the lad, trying to stanch the flow of blood with his handkerchief. He had been about to turn back and rejoin Sam when the incident occurred.
Dan paused to think over just what had happened.
"Oh, I remember, now. I heard something strike the deck. That must have been after it hit me. I'll see if I can find out what it was."
Stepping carefully along over the deck, feeling with his toes, the boy almost tripped over some object which he knew did not belong there.
With an exclamation Dan stooped over. His hand came in contact with a piece of cold steel. The instant his fingers touched it he knew what he had found.
"A marline spike," breathed Dan. "No wonder it hurt."
The missile that had hit him is used for twisting the strands of rope apart. It is of steel, about eight inches long, and tapers to a needle point. It makes a most dangerous weapon.
Dan carried this to the light, examining it carefully. Its point was still moist where it had caught him.
"Somebody must have tried to kill me," he muttered. "An inch further, and I certainly should have been a dead one. Who could have done such a dastardly thing? I can't understand it at all."
The lad hurried back to where he had left his companion. Sam started to speak, but he saw something in the face of Dan Davis that suddenly checked his levity.
"Why, what's the matter?" he cried.
"Nothing, except that some one tried to kill me just now."
"Tried to kill you?"
"Yes; look here."
Dan removed the handkerchief, and Sam, with gentle fingers, made a careful examination of the wound.
"Punched a hole right through the lobe of your ear. Who did that?" he demanded in a low, tense voice.
"I wish I knew."
"How did they do it? It looks as if you had been shot."
"They did it with this, Sam," answered Dan, exhibiting the marline spike.
Sam uttered a low growl, as he took the pointed spike, holding it in his hand reflectively.
"You must have that dressed, right away. Come along. We'll go to see Pills. There is time, if we hurry."
"Yes; I guess it had better be attended to. I shall have such a big ear to-morrow that they will not have me on deck."
"Worse cauliflower ear than you gave Bill Kester," laughed Sam. "We'll look into this business in the morning. We shan't have time to-night, I'm sorry to say."
On their way to the sick bay, where they were hurrying to have the wound dressed, the boys were obliged to pass the quarters of the master-at-arms, the minor official who is responsible for the behavior of all hands on shipboard.
Ere Dan could protest, Sam had rapped on the door casing, and an instant later was dragging his companion in through the curtained doorway.
"Now what do you think of that, sir?" exclaimed the red-headed boy.
"Seaman Davis got hurt, eh?" questioned the petty officer, noting the blood on Dan's cheek.
"Yes, sir. I am on my way to see the surgeon. If I have to be a few moments late in reporting for hammocks, will you excuse me?"
"Certainly. I will give you a half hour's leeway. How did you get that wound?"
"Somebody handed him a marline spike, sir," interrupted Hickey.
"A marline spike?"
"Yes, they did."
The master-at-arms turned inquiringly on Dan.
"Is this true?"
Dad nodded half reluctantly.
"Tell me how it occurred."
The boy did so briefly.
"You have no idea who threw the spike?"
"Not the slightest, sir."
"Where were you, Hickey?"
"Below, writing a letter. I knew nothing about it, until my chum came below and I saw the blood on his face."
"Have you any enemies on board?"
"Not that I know of, sir."
"Was anyone except yourself on deck at the time?"
"Yes; a few of the men were asleep further forward. I saw no one moving about."
"Come with me."
The master-at-arms conducted Dan to the surgeon, where a quick examination was made of the wound, after which the surgeon dressed it and put in several stitches. Dan did not even wince, though the pain was severe. Sam's face was pale, and the perspiration stood out on his forehead as he watched the stitching of the ragged ear-lobe.
"Anybody would think you were being operated upon by the looks of you," laughed Dan.
"I feel as if I were," answered Sam rather weakly.
The wound attended to, the petty officer directed the boys to follow him, which they did, going directly to the forward deck.
"Show me where and how you were standing at the time of the accident, Davis."
Dan took the place, as nearly as he could, where he had been standing when the marline spike struck him.
"Which way were you facing?"
"Forward, sir."
"The spike was thrown from behind you then?"
"Yes, sir, it must have been."
"Here is where it hit the deck, sir," called Sam.
"Do you recall how it appeared when you took hold of it?"
"I think the head of the spike was leaning aft. I should say it had about a forty-degree lean."
The master-at-arms nodded.
"It is quite clear that the spike was thrown at you from the superstructure. By the way, where's the spike?"
"I have it," said Sam, extending the spike to the petty officer.
"I will take care of this. Say nothing about what has occurred, but keep your eyes open. If you have reason to suspect any one, let me know at once. I can hardly believe that we have a man on board the 'Long Island' desperate enough to attempt a crime like this. If ever there was an attempted murder this is one. Go to your quarters now."
In the excitement following the attempt on his life, Dan had forgotten all about the letter he had written to his mother. It did not occur to him until the boys were at gun practice with the seven-inch piece the following morning. He turned to Sam at the first opportunity.
"What did you do with my letter?" he demanded.
"I put it in my ditty box last night. I was too excited to remember that it belonged to you. I'll give it to you when we are piped down for mess."
"All right; I want to add something to it."
"Say, Dynamite," said a companion, "where did you get the game ear?"
"It was hurt," answered Dan evasively.
"It looks as if a bulldog had been chewing at it. You never did that of your own accord, did you?"
"That is a foolish question. It isn't likely that I would tear half my ear off, just for the fun of the thing, is it?"
Further conversation was interrupted by an order from the gun captain to resume dotter practice. For the next hour the attention of the boys was wholly taken up by this fascinating work.
After mess Dan asked for his letter. Sam got out his ditty box and handed the letter back rather sheepishly; after which he busied himself with pawing over the articles in his box.
"Am I to read what you have written?" questioned Dan with a smile.
"You may read it, if you want to," answered Sam, growing very red. "I didn't figure on your doing so, though."
"Well, you insisted on knowing what I had written to mother, so I guess you will have to take the same medicine," retorted Dan with a laugh, as he opened the sheet on which his companion had written his message to Mrs. Davis.
Dan's face sobered as he read, but he made no comment until he had gone through the letter. He glanced up with swimming eyes. Sam was not looking at him. The red-headed boy was deeply absorbed in his ditty box at that moment.
"Sam Hickey, look at me," commanded Dan.
"I'm looking at you."
"Do you mean that you want to give your two hundred dollars to mother?"
"Yes, that's what I mean," answered Sam, defiantly. "I haven't any mother. Why shouldn't I give your mother my money? I haven't any use for it, except what I need for clothes, and I reckon I've got clothes enough to last me to the end of the cruise. By that time I'll have another wad. Don't you say a word. I've made up my mind. Maybe your mother would fix up a place in the garret where I could sleep when I go back home again."
"In the garret? Well, I should think not. The best bedroom in the house will be none too good for you, Sam Hickey, and that without your contributing to the house fund either. I can't have it. I——"
"Then I'll sling my hammock in the back yard and roost with the hens. That will be as good as some places I have had to sleep in since I joined the Navy."
"I can't have it, Sam," answered Dan firmly. "No, I cannot accept your gift. Remember, old fellow," added Dan, grasping his companion by the hand, "you owe so much to yourself that you have no business to be generous."
"There's the captain's orderly," interrupted Sam. "I guess he is looking for us. I hope nothing is wrong."
"Are you Seaman Davis?" asked the orderly, who on this occasion was one of the marines.
"Yes."
"The captain wishes to see you in his office before you are piped up to work again."
"I will be there at once. Sam, we'll talk this matter over later. But, remember, I shall not listen to your doing what you have planned, but I'll send your letter to mother so she may know what a great big-hearted fellow you are. I must go now."
Sam had his way, however, and the money went with the letter.