"Do not think me indifferent or ungrateful. I have watched from a distance while you made your wonderful fight for your old standards. You have won, and I am glad and I congratulate you. But Myra will not let me rest. She asks for you continually and cries at times. I can bear it no longer. Will you not come and see Myra?"
"Do not think me indifferent or ungrateful. I have watched from a distance while you made your wonderful fight for your old standards. You have won, and I am glad and I congratulate you. But Myra will not let me rest. She asks for you continually and cries at times. I can bear it no longer. Will you not come and see Myra?"
And the man went to see—Myra.
Twoyoung men met in front of the post-office of a small country town. They were of about the same age—eighteen—each was well dressed, comely, and apparently of good family; and each had an expression of face that would commend him to strangers, save that one of them, the larger of the two, had what is called a "bad eye"—that is, an eye showing just a little too much white above the iris. In the other's eye white predominated below the iris. The former is usually the index of violent though restrained temper; the latter of an intuitive, psychic disposition, with very little self-control. The difference in character so indicated may lead one person to the Presidency, another to the gallows. And—though no such results are promised—with similar divergence of path, of pain and pleasure, of punishment and reward, is this story concerned.
The two boys were schoolmates and friends, with never a quarrel since they had known each other; they had graduated together from the high school, but neither had been valedictorian. They later had sought the competitive examination given by the congressman of the district for an appointment to the Naval Academy, and had won out over all, but so close together that the congressman had decreed another test.
They had taken it, and since then had waited for the letter that named the winner; hence the daily visits to the post-office, ending in this one, when thelarger boy, about to go up the steps, met the smaller coming down with an opened letter, and smiling.
"I've got it, Jack," said the smaller boy, joyously. "Here it is. I win, but, of course, you're the alternate. Read it."
He handed the letter to Jack, but it was declined.
"What's the use?" was the somewhat sulky response. "I've lost, sure enough. All I've got to do is to forget it."
"Then let me read it to you," said the winner, eagerly. "I want you to feel glad about it—same as I would if you had passed first. Listen:
"'Mr. William Denman."'Dear Sir: I am glad to inform you that you have successfully passed the second examination for an appointment to the Naval Academy, winning by three points in history over the other contestant, Mr. John Forsythe, who, of course, is the alternate in case you do not pass the entrance examination at Annapolis."'Be ready at any time for instructions from the Secretary of the Navy to report at Annapolis. Sincerely yours,Jacob Bland.'"
"'Mr. William Denman.
"'Dear Sir: I am glad to inform you that you have successfully passed the second examination for an appointment to the Naval Academy, winning by three points in history over the other contestant, Mr. John Forsythe, who, of course, is the alternate in case you do not pass the entrance examination at Annapolis.
"'Be ready at any time for instructions from the Secretary of the Navy to report at Annapolis. Sincerely yours,
Jacob Bland.'"
"What do I care for that?" said Forsythe. "I suppose I've got a letter in there, too. Let's see."
While Denman waited, Forsythe entered the post-office, and soon emerged, reading a letter.
"Same thing," he said. "I failed by three points in my special study. How is it, Bill?" he demanded, fiercely, as his disappointment grew upon him. "I've beaten not only you, but the whole class from the primary up, in history, ancient, modern, and local, until now. There's something crooked here." His voice sank to a mutter.
"Crooked, Jack! What are you talking about?" replied Denman, hotly.
"Oh, I don't know, Bill. Never mind. Come on, if you're going home."
They walked side by side in the direction of their homes—near together and on the outskirts of the town—each busy with his thoughts. Denman, though proud and joyous over the prize he had won, was yet hurt by the speech and manner of Forsythe, and hurt still further by the darkening cloud on his face as they walked on.
Forsythe's thoughts were best indicated by his suddenly turning toward Denman and blurting out:
"Yes, I say; there's something crooked in this. I can beat you in history any day in the week, but your dad and old Bland are close friends. I see it now."
Denman turned white as he answered:
"Do you want me to report your opinion to my father and Mr. Bland?"
"Oh, you would, would you? And take from me the alternate, too! Well, you're a cur, Bill Denman. Go ahead and report."
They were now on a block bounded by vacant lots, and no one was within sight. Denman stopped, threw off his coat, and said:
"No, I'll not report your opinion, but—you square yourself, Jack Forsythe, and I'll show you the kind of cur I am."
Forsythe turned, saw the anger in Denman's eyes, and promptly shed his coat.
It was a short fight, of one round only. Each fought courageously, and with such fistic skill as schoolboys acquire, and each was equal to the other in strength; but one possessed about an inch longer reach than the other, which decided the battle.
Denman, with nose bleeding and both eyes closing, went down at last, and could not arise, nor even see the necessity of rising. But soon his brain cleared, and he staggered to his feet, his head throbbing viciously and his face and clothing smeared withblood from his nose, to see between puffed eyelids the erect figure of Forsythe swaggering around a distant corner. He stanched the blood with his handkerchief, but as there was not a brook, a ditch, or a puddle in the neighborhood, he could only go home as he was, trusting that he would meet no one.
"Licked!" he muttered. "For the first time in my life, too! What'll the old gentleman and mother say?"
What the father and mother might say, or what they did say, has no part in this story; but what another person said may have a place and value, and will be given here. This person was the only one he met before reaching home—a very small person, about thirteen years old, with big gray eyes and long dark ringlets, who ran across the street to look at him.
"Why, Billie Denman!" she cried, shocked and anxious. "What has happened to you? Run over?"
"No, Florrie," he answered, painfully. "I've been licked. I had a fight."
"But don't you know it's wrong to fight, Billie?"
"Maybe," answered Denman, trying to get more blood from his face to the already saturated handkerchief. "But we all do wrong—sometimes."
The child planted herself directly before him, and looked chidingly into his discolored and disfigured face.
"Billie Denman," she said, shaking a small finger at him, "of course I'm sorry, but, if you have been fighting when you know it is wrong, why—why, it served you right."
Had he not been aching in every joint, his nose, his lips, and his eyes, this unjust speech might have amused him. As it was he answered testily:
"Florence Fleming, you're only a kid yet, thoughthe best one I know; and if I should tell you the name I was called and which brought on the fight, you would not understand. But you'll grow up some day, and then you will understand. Now, remember this fight, and when some woman, or possibly some man, calls you a—a cat, you'll feel like fighting, too."
"But I wouldn't mind," she answered, firm in her position. "Papa called me a kitten to-day, and I didn't get mad."
"Well, Florrie," he said, wearily, "I won't try to explain. I'm going away before long, and perhaps I won't come back again. But if I do, there'll be another fight."
"Going away, Billie!" she cried in alarm. "Where to?"
"To Annapolis. I may stay, or I may come back. I don't know."
"And you are going away, and you don't know that you'll come back! Oh, Billie, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you got licked, too. Who did it? I hate him. Who licked you, Billie?"
"Never mind, Florrie. He'll tell the news, and you'll soon know who he is."
He walked on, but the child headed him and faced him. There were tears in the gray eyes.
"And you're going away, Billie!" she exclaimed again. "When are you going?"
"I don't know," he answered. "Whenever I am sent for. If I don't see you again, good-by, Florrie girl." He stooped to kiss her, but straightened up, remembering the condition of his face.
"But I will see you again," she declared. "I will, I will. I'll come to your house. And, Billie—I'm sorry I scolded you, really I am."
He smiled ruefully. "Never mind that, Florrie; you always scolded me, you know, and I'm used to it."
"But only when you did wrong, Billie," she answered,gravely, "and somehow I feel that this time you have not done wrong. But I won't scold the next time youreallydo wrong. I promise."
"Oh, yes, you will, little girl. It's the privilege and prerogative of your sex."
He patted her on the head and went on, leaving her staring, open-eyed and tearful. She was the child of a neighbor; he had mended her dolls, soothed her griefs, and protected her since infancy, but she was only as a small sister to him.
While waiting for orders to Annapolis, he saw her many times, but she did not change to him. She changed, however; she had learned the name of his assailant, and through her expressed hatred for him, and through her sympathy for Billie as the disfigurements left his face, she passed the border between childhood and womanhood.
When orders came, he stopped at her home, kissed her good-by, and went to Annapolis, leaving her sad-eyed and with quivering lips.
And he did not come back.
Shewas the largest, fastest, and latest thing in seagoing destroyers, and though the specifications called for but thirty-six knots' speed, she had made thirty-eight on her trial trip, and later, under careful nursing by her engineers, she had increased this to forty knots an hour—five knots faster than any craft afloat—and, with a clean bottom, this speed could be depended upon at any time it was needed.
She derived this speed from six water-tube boilers, feeding at a pressure of three hundred pounds live steam to five turbine engines working three screws,one high-pressure turbine on the center shaft, and four low-pressure on the wing shafts. Besides these she possessed two "astern" turbines and two cruising turbines—all four on the wing shafts.
She made steam with oil fuel, there being no coal on board except for heating and cooking, and could carry a hundred and thirty tons of it, which gave her a cruising radius of about two thousand miles; also, with "peace tanks" filled, she could steam three thousand miles without replenishing. This would carry her across the Atlantic at thirteen knots' speed, but if she was in a hurry, using all turbines, she would exhaust her oil in two days.
When in a hurry, she was a spectacle to remember. Built on conventional lines, she showed at a mile's distance nothing but a high bow and four short funnels over a mighty bow wave that hid the rest of her long, dark-hued hull, and a black, horizontal cloud of smoke that stretched astern half a mile before the wind could catch and rend it.
She carried four twenty-one-inch torpedo tubes and a battery of six twelve-pounder, rapid-fire guns; also, she carried two large searchlights and a wireless equipment of seventy miles reach, the aërials of which stretched from the truck of her short signal mast aft to a short pole at the taffrail.
Packed with machinery, she was a "hot box," even when at rest, and when in action a veritable bake oven. She had hygienic air space below decks for about a dozen men, and this number could handle her; but she carried berths and accommodations for sixty.
Her crew was not on board, however. Newly scraped and painted in the dry dock, she had been hauled out, stored, and fueled by a navy-yard gang, and now lay at the dock, ready for sea—ready for her draft of men in the morning, and with no oneon board for the night but the executive officer, who, with something on his mind, had elected to remain, while the captain and other commissioned officers went ashore for the night.
Four years at the Naval Academy, a two years' sea cruise, and a year of actual service had made many changes in Denman. He was now twenty-five, an ensign, but, because of his position as executive, bearing the complimentary title of lieutenant.
He was a little taller and much straighter and squarer of shoulder than when he had gone to the academy. He had grown a trim mustache, and the sun and winds of many seas had tanned his face to the color of his eyes; which were of a clear brown, and only in repose did they now show the old-time preponderance of white beneath the brown.
In action these eyes looked out through two slits formed by nearly parallel eyelids, and with the tightly closed lips and high arching eyebrows—sure sign of the highest and best form of physical and moral courage—they gave his face a sort of "take care" look, which most men heeded.
Some women would have thought him handsome, some would not; it all depended upon the impression they made on him, and the consequent look in his eyes.
At Annapolis he had done well; he was the most popular man of his class, had won honors from his studies and fist fights from his fellows, while at sea he had shown a reckless disregard for his life, in such matters as bursting flues, men overboard, and other casualties of seafaring, that brought him many type-written letters from Washington, a few numbers of advancement, and the respect and admiration of all that knew or had heard of him.
His courage, like Mrs. Cæsar's morals, was above suspicion. Yet there was one man in the world whowas firmly convinced that Lieutenant Denman had a yellow streak in him, and that man was Denman himself.
He had never been home since his departure for Annapolis. He had promised a small girl that if he came back there would be another fight, in which, as he mentally vowed, he would redeem himself. In this he had been sincere, but as the months at the academy went on, with the unsettled fight still in the future, his keen resentment died away, leaving in its place a sense of humiliation and chagrin.
He still meant to go back, however, and would have done so when vacation came; but a classmate invited him to his home, and there he went, glad of the reprieve from an embarrassing, and, as it seemed to him now, an undignified conflict with a civilian. But the surrender brought its sting, and his self-respect lessened.
At the next vacation he surrendered again, and the sting began eating into his soul. He thought of the overdue redemption he had promised himself at all times and upon all occasions, but oftenest just before going to sleep, when the mental picture of Jack Forsythe swaggering around the corner, whilehelay conquered and helpless on the ground, would accompany him through his dreams, and be with him when he wakened in the morning.
It became an obsession, and very soon the sudden thought of his coming fight with Forsythe brought the uplift of the heart and the slight choking sensation that betokened nothing but fear.
He would not admit it at first, but finally was compelled to. Honest with himself as he was with others, he finally yielded in the mental struggle, and accepted the dictum of his mind. He was afraid to fight Jack Forsythe, with no reference to, or regard for, his standing as an officer and a gentleman.
But now, it seemed, all this was to leave him. A month before, he had thought strongly of his child friend Florrie, and, with nothing to do one afternoon, he had written her a letter—a jolly, rollicking letter, filled with masculine colloquialisms and friendly endearments, such as he had bestowed upon her at home; and it was the dignity of her reply—received that day—with the contents of the letter, which was the "something on his mind" that kept him aboard.
His cheeks burned as he realized that she was now about twenty years old, a young lady, and that his letter to her had been sadly conceived and much out of place. But the news in the letter, which began with "Dear Sir," and ended with "Sincerely yours," affected him most. It read:
"I presume you know that your enemy, Jack Forsythe, took his disappointment so keenly that he never amounted to much at home, and about two years ago enlisted in the navy. This relieves you, as father tells me, from the necessity of thrashing him—as you declared you would. Officers and enlisted men cannot fight, he said, as the officer has the advantage, and can always order the man to jail. I thank you very much for remembering me after all these years—in fact, I shall never forget your kindness."
"I presume you know that your enemy, Jack Forsythe, took his disappointment so keenly that he never amounted to much at home, and about two years ago enlisted in the navy. This relieves you, as father tells me, from the necessity of thrashing him—as you declared you would. Officers and enlisted men cannot fight, he said, as the officer has the advantage, and can always order the man to jail. I thank you very much for remembering me after all these years—in fact, I shall never forget your kindness."
His cheeks and ears had burned all day, and when his fellow officers had gone, and he was alone, he reread the letter.
"Sarcasm and contempt between every line," he muttered. "She expected me—the whole town expected me—to come back and lick that fellow. Well"—his eyelids became rigidly parallel—"I'll do it. When I find him, I'll get shore leave for both of us, take him home, and square the account."
This resolution did him good; the heat left his cheek, and the sudden jump of the heart did not come with the occasional thought of the task. Gradually the project took form; he would learn whatship Forsythe was in, get transferred to her, and when in port arrange the shore leave. He could not fight him in the navy, but as man to man, in civilian's clothing in the town park, he would fight him and thrash him before the populace.
It was late when he had finished the planning. He lighted a last cigar, and sauntered around the deck until the cigar was consumed. Then he went to his room and turned in, thinking of the caustic words of Miss Florrie, forgiving her the while, and wondering how she looked—grown up.
They were pleasant thoughts to go to sleep on, but sleep did not come. It was an intensely hot, muggy night, and the mosquitoes were thick. He tried another room, then another, and at last, driven out of the wardroom by the pests, he took refuge in the steward's pantry, and spreading his blanket on the floor, went to sleep on it.
Heslept soundly, and as he slept the wind blew up from the east, driving the mosquitoes to cover and bringing with it a damp, impenetrable fog that sank down over the navy yard and hid sentry from sentry, compelling them to count their steps as they paced.
They were scattered through the yard, at various important points, one at the gangway of each ship at the docks, others at corners and entrances to the different walks that traversed the green lawn, and others under the walls of the huge naval prison.
One of these, whose walk extended from corner to corner, heard something, and paused often to listen intently, his eyes peering around into the fog. But the sound was not repeated while he listened—onlyas his footfalls sounded soggily on the damp path were they punctuated by this still, small sound, that he could not localize or remember.
If asked, he might have likened it to the rustling of paper, or the sound of a cat's claws digging into a carpet.
But at last it ceased, and he went back and forth many times without hearing it; then, when about half-way from corner to corner, a heavy body came down from above, landing on his head and shoulders and bearing him to earth, while his rifle was knocked from his hand and big fingers clutched his throat.
He struggled and endeavored to call out. But the grip on his throat was too strong, and finally he quieted, his last flicker of consciousness cognizing other dropping bodies and the muttered and whispered words of men.
So much for this sentry.
"I know the way," whispered the garroter, and a few gathered around him. "We'll make a bee line for the dock and avoid 'em. Then, if we can't find a boat, we'll swim for it. It's the only way."
"Right," whispered another; "fall in here, behind Jenkins—all of you."
The whispered word was passed along, and in single file the dark-brown bodies, each marked on knee and elbow with a white number, followed the leader, Jenkins. He led them across the green, around corners where sentries were not, and down to the dock where lay the destroyer.
Here was a sentry, pacing up and down; but so still was their approach that he did not see them until they were right upon him.
"Who goes—" he started, but the challenge was caught in his throat. He, too, was choked until consciousness almost left him; then the stricture was relaxed while they questioned him.
"Got a boat around here?" hissed Jenkins in his ear. "Whisper—don't speak."
"No," gasped the sentry, unable to speak louder had he dared.
"How many men are aboard the destroyer?" was asked.
"None now. Crew joins in the morning."
"Nobody on board, you say? Lie quiet. If you raise a row, I'll drop you overboard. Come here, you fellows."
They closed about him, thirteen in all, and listened to his project. He was a pilot of the bay. How many machinists were there in the party? Four claimed the rating.
"Right enough," said Jenkins. "We'll run her out. She's oil fuel, as I understand. You can fire up in ten minutes, can't you? Good. Come on. Wait, though."
Jenkins, with his grip of steel, was equal to the task of tearing a strip from his brown prison jacket, and with this he securely gagged the poor sentry. Another strip from another jacket bound his hands behind him, and still another secured him to a mooring cleat, face upward. This done, they silently filed aboard, and spread about through the interior. The sentry had spoken truly, they agreed, when they mustered together. There was no one on board, and the machinists reported plenty of oil fuel.
Soon the fires were lighted, and the indicator began to move, as the boilers made steam. They did not wait for full pressure. Jenkins had spread out a chart in the pilot-house, and when the engines could turn over he gave the word. Lines were taken in except a spring to back on; then this was cast off, and the long, slim hull moved almost silently away from the dock.
Jenkins steered by the light of a match held overthe compass until there was steam enough to turn the dynamos, then the electrics were turned on in the pilot-house, engine room, and side-light boxes—by which time the dock was out of sight in the fog, and they dared speak in articulate words. Their language was profane but joyous, and their congratulations hearty and sincere.
A table knife is an innocent and innocuous weapon, but two table knives are not, for one can be used against the other so skillfully as to form a fairly good hack saw, with which prison bars may be sawed. The sawing of steel bars was the sound that the sentry had heard mingling with his footfalls.
Jenkins, at the wheel, called to the crowd. "Take the wheel, one of you," he ordered. "I've just rounded the corner. Keep her sou'east, half south for a mile. I'll be here, then. I want to rig the log over the stern."
The man answered, and Jenkins departed with the boat's patent log. Down in the engine and boiler rooms were the four machinists—engineers, they would be called in merchant steamers—and under their efforts the engines turned faster, while a growing bow wave spread from each side of the sharp stem.
The fog was still thick, so thick that the fan-shaped beams from the side lights could not pierce it as far as the bow, and the forward funnel was barely visible—a magnified black stump.
Jenkins was back among them soon, remarking that she was making twenty knots already. Then he slowed down, ordered the lead hove, each side, and ringing full speed, quietly took the wheel, changing the course again to east, quarter north, and ordering a man aloft to keep a lookout in the thinner fog for lights ahead.
In a few minutes the man reported—a fixed whitelight four points off the starboard bow, and a little later a fixed white-and-red flashlight two points off the port bow.
"Good," grunted Jenkins. "I know just where I am. Come down from aloft," he called, "and watch out for buoys. I'm going out the South and Hypocrite Channels."
Then a dull boom rang out from astern, followed by another and another, and Jenkins laughed.
"They've found that sentry," he said, "and have telephoned Fort Independence; but it's no good. They've only got salute guns. We passed that fort twenty minutes ago."
"Any others?" they asked.
"Fort Warren, down on the Narrows. That's why I'm going out through the Hypocrite. Keep your eyes peeled for buoys, you ginks, and keep those leads going."
Calm and imperturbable, a huge, square-faced giant of a man, Jenkins naturally assumed the leadership of this band of jail-breakers. The light from the binnacle illuminated a countenance of rugged yet symmetrical features, stamped with prison pallor, but also stamped with a stronger imprint of refinement. A man palpably out of place, no doubt. A square peg in a round hole; a man with every natural attribute of a master of men. Some act of rage or passion, perhaps, some non-adjustment to an unjust environment, had sent him to the naval prison, to escape and become a pirate; for that was the legal status of all.
Soon the wind shifted and the fog cleared to seaward, but still held its impenetrable wall between them and the town. Then they turned on both searchlights, and saw buoys ahead, to starboard and port.
Jenkins boasted a little. "I've run these channelsfor years," he said, "and I know them as I know the old backyard at home. Hello, what's up?"
A man had run to the pilot-house door in great excitement.
"An officer aboard," he whispered. "I was down looking for grub, and saw him. He's been asleep."
"Take the wheel," said Jenkins, calmly. "Keep her as she goes, and leave that black buoy to starboard." Then he stepped out on deck.
Seamen, officers as well as men, accustomed to "watch and watch," of four hours' alternate duty and sleep, usually waken at eight bells, even when sure of an all night's sleep. It was long after midnight when Denman had gone to sleep on the pantry floor, and the slight noise of getting under way did not arouse him; but when eight bells came around again, he sat up, confused, not conscious that he had been called, but dimly realizing that the boat was at sea, and that he was culpable in not being on deck.
The crew had come, no doubt, and he had over-slept. He did not immediately realize that it was still dark, and that if the crew had come the steward would have found him.
He dressed hurriedly in his room, and went on deck, spying a fleeing man in brown mounting the steps ahead of him, and looked around. Astern was a fog bank, and ahead the open sea, toward which the boat was charging at full speed. As he looked, a man came aft and faced him. Denman expected that he would step aside while he passed, but he did not; instead he blocked his way.
"Are you an officer of this boat, sir?" asked the man, respectfully.
"I am. What do you want?"
"Only to tell you, sir, that she is not now under the control of the Navy Department. My name is Jenkins, and with twelve others I escaped from the prison to-night, and took charge of this boat for a while. We did not know you were on board."
Denman started back and felt for his pocket pistol, but it was in his room. However, Jenkins had noticed the movement, and immediately sprang upon him, bearing him against the nearest ventilator, and pinioning his arms to his side.
"None o' that, sir," said the giant, sternly. "Are there any others on board besides yourself?"
"Not that I know of," answered Denman, with forced calmness. "The crew had not joined when I went to sleep. What do you intend to do with me?"
He had seen man after man approach from forward, and now a listening group surrounded him.
"That's for you to decide, sir. If you will renounce your official position, we will put you on parole; if you will not, you will be confined below decks until we are ready to leave this craft. All we want is our liberty."
"How do you intend to get it? Every warship in the world will chase this boat."
"There is not a craft in the world that can catch her," rejoined Jenkins; "but that is beside the point. Will you go on parole, sir, or in irons?"
"How many are there in this party?"
"Thirteen—all told; and that, too, is beside the point. Answer quickly, sir. I am needed at the wheel."
"I accept your offer," said Denman, "because I want fresh air, and nothing will be gained in honorand integrity in my resisting you. However, I shall not assist you in any way. Even if I see you going to destruction, I shall not warn you."
"That is enough, sir," answered Jenkins. "You give your word of honor, do you, as an American naval officer, not to interfere with the working of this boat or the movements of her crew until after we have left her?"
"I give you my word," said the young officer, not without some misgivings. "You seem to be in command. What shall I call you?"
"Herbert Jenkins, seaman gunner."
"Captain Jenkins," growled a man, and others repeated it.
"Captain Jenkins," responded Denman, "I greet you cordially. My name is William Denman, ensign in the United States Navy, and formally executive officer of this boat."
A suppressed exclamation came from the group; a man stepped forward, peered closely into Denman's face, and stepped back.
"None o' that, Forsythe," said Jenkins, sternly. "We're all to treat Mr. Denman with respect. Now, you fellows, step forward, and introduce yourselves. I know only a few of you by name."
Jenkins went to the wheel, picked up the buoys played upon by the searchlights, and sent the man to join the others, as one after another faced Denman and gave his name.
"Guess you know me, Mr. Denman," said Forsythe, the first to respond.
"I know you, Forsythe," answered Denman, hot and ashamed; for at the sight and sound of him the old heart jump and throat ache had returned. He fought it down, however, and listened to the names as the men gave them: William Hawkes, seaman; George Davis, seaman; John Kelly, gunner's mate;Percy Daniels, ship's cook, and Thomas Billings, wardroom steward.
John Casey and Frank Munson, they explained, were at the searchlights forward; and down below were the four machinists, Riley, Sampson, King, and Dwyer.
Denman politely bowed his acknowledgments, and asked the ratings of the searchlight men.
"Wireless operators," they answered.
"You seem well-equipped and well-chosen men," he said, "to run this boat, and to lead the government a lively dance for a while. But until the end comes, I hope we will get on together without friction."
In the absence of the masterful Jenkins, they made embarrassed replies—all but Forsythe, who remained silent. For no sudden upheaval and reversing of relations will eliminate the enlisted man's respect for an officer.
Daylight had come, and Jenkins, having cleared the last of the buoys, called down the men at the searchlights.
"You're wireless sharps, aren't you?" he asked. "Go down to the apparatus, and see if you can pick up any messages. The whole coast must be aroused."
The two obeyed him, and went in search of the wireless room. Soon one returned. "The air's full o' talk," he said. "Casey's at the receiver, still listening, but I made out only a few words like 'Charleston,' 'Brooklyn,' 'jail,' 'pirates,' 'Pensacola,' and one phrasing 'Send in pursuit.'"
"The open sea for us," said Jenkins, grimly, "until we can think out a plan. Send one of those sogers to the wheel."
A "soger"—one who, so far, had done no work—relieved him, and he mustered his men, all but two in the engine room, to a council amidships. Briefly he stated the situation, as hinted at by Denman andverified by the wireless messages. Every nation in the world would send its cruisers after them, and no civilized country would receive them.
There was but one thing to do under the circumstances—make for the wild coast of Africa, destroy the boat, and land, each man to work out his future as he could.
After a little parley they assented, taking no thought of fuel or food, and trusting to Jenkins' power to navigate. Then, it being broad daylight, they raided the boat's stores for clothing, and discarded their prison suits of brown for the blue of the navy—Jenkins, the logical commander, donning the uniform of the captain, as large a man as himself.
Next they chose their bunks in the forecastle, and, as they left it for the deck, Jenkins picked up a bright object from the floor, and absently put it in his trousers pocket.
Theboat was now charging due east at full speed, out into the broad Atlantic, and, as the full light of the day spread over the sea, a few specks and trails of smoke astern showed themselves; but whether or not they were pursuing craft that had crept close in the darkness while they were making steam could not be determined; for they soon sank beneath the horizon.
Assured of immediate safety, Jenkins now stationed his crew. Forsythe was a seaman; he and Hawkes, Davis, and Kelly, the gunner's mate, would comprise the deck force. Riley, Sampson, King, and Dwyer, all machinists, would attend to the engine and boilers. Casey and Munson, the two wireless operators, would attend to their department, whileDaniels and Billings, the cook and steward, would cook and serve the meals.
There would be no officers, Jenkins declared. All were to stand watch, and work faithfully and amicably for the common good; and all disputes were to be referred to him. To this they agreed, for, though many there were of higher comparative rating in the navy, Jenkins had a strong voice, a dominating personality, and a heavy fist.
But Jenkins had his limitations, as came out during the confab. He could not navigate; he had been an expert pilot of Boston Bay before joining the navy, but in the open sea he was as helpless as any.
"However," he said, in extenuation, "we only need to sail about southeast to reach the African coast, and when we hit it we'll know it." So the course was changed, and soon they sat down to their breakfast; such a meal as they had not tasted in years—wardroom "grub," every mouthful.
Denman was invited, and, as he was a prisoner on parole, was not too dignified to accept, though he took no part in the hilarious conversation. But neither did Forsythe.
Denman went to his room, locked up his private papers, and surrendered his revolver to Jenkins, who declined it; he then put it with his papers and returned to the deck, seating himself in a deck chair on the quarter. The watch below had gone down, and those on deck, under Jenkins, who stood no watch, busied themselves in the necessary cleaning up of decks and stowing below of the fenders the boat had worn at the dock.
Forsythe had gone below, and Denman was somewhat glad in his heart to be free of him until he had settled his mind in regard to his attitude toward him.
Manifestly he, a prisoner on parole, could not seeka conflict with him. On the contrary, should Forsythe seek it, by word or deed, he could not meet him without breaking his parole, which would bring him close confinement.
Then, too, that prospective fight and vindication before Miss Florrie and his townsmen seemed of very small importance compared with the exigency at hand—the stealing by jail-breakers of the navy's best destroyer and one of its officers.
His duty was to circumvent those fellows, and return the boat to the government. To accomplish this he must be tactful and diplomatic, deferring action until the time should come when he could safely ask to be released from parole; and with regard to this he was glad that Forsythe, though as evil-eyed as before, and with an additional truculent expression of the face, had thus far shown him no incivility. He was glad, too, because in his heart there were no revengeful thoughts about Forsythe—nothing but thoughts of a duty to himself that had been sadly neglected.
Thus tranquilized, he lit a cigar and looked around the horizon.
A speck to the north caught his eye, and as he watched, it became a spot, then a tangible silhouette—a battle-ship, though of what country he could not determine.
It was heading on a course that would intercept their own, and in a short time, at the speed they were making, the destroyer would be within range of her heavy guns, one shell from which could break the frail craft in two.
Jenkins and his crowd were busy, the man at the wheel was steering by compass and looking ahead, and it was the wireless operator on watch—Casey—who rushed on deck, looked at the battle-ship, and shouted to Jenkins.
"Don't you see that fellow?" he yelled, excitedly. "I heard him before I saw him. He asked: 'What ship is that?'"
Jenkins looked to the north, just in time to see a tongue of red dart from a casemate port; then, as the bark of the gun came down the wind, a spurt of water lifted from the sea about a hundred yards ahead.
"Port your wheel—hard over," yelled Jenkins, running forward. The destroyer swung to the southward, showing her stern to the battle-ship, and increasing her speed as the engine-room staff nursed the oil feed and the turbines. Black smoke—unconsumed carbon that even the blowers could not ignite—belched up from the four short funnels, and partly hid her from the battle-ship's view.
But, obscure though she was, she could not quite hide herself in her smoke nor could her speed carry her faster than the twelve-inch shells that now came plowing through the air. They fell close, to starboard and to port, and a few came perilously near to the stern; but none hit or exploded, and soon they were out of range and the firing ceased, the battle-ship heading to the west.
Jenkins came aft, and looked sternly at Denman, still smoking his cigar.
"Did you see that fellow before we did?" he asked.
"I did," answered Denman, returning his stare.
"Why didn't you sing out? If we're sunk, you drown, too, don't you?"
"You forget, Captain Jenkins, that I accepted my parole on condition that I should neither interfere with you nor assist you."
"But your life—don't you value that?"
"Not under some conditions. If I cannot emergefrom this adventure with credit and honor intact, I prefer death. Do you understand?"
Jenkins' face worked visibly, as anger left it and wondering doubt appeared. Then his countenance cleared, and he smiled.
"You're right, sir. I understand now. But you know what we mean to do, don't you? Make the African coast and scatter. You can stand for that, can't you?"
"Not unless I have to. But you will not reach the coast. You will be hunted down and caught before then."
Jenkins' face clouded again. "And what part will you play if that comes?" he asked.
"No part, active or resistant, unless first released from parole. But if I ask for that release, it will be at a time when I am in greater danger than now, I promise you that."
"Very well, sir. Ask for it when you like." And Jenkins went forward.
The course to the southeast was resumed, but in half an hour two other specks on the southern horizon resolved into scout cruisers heading their way, and they turned to the east, still rushing at full speed.
They soon dropped the scouts, however, but were again driven to the north by a second battle-ship that shelled their vicinity for an hour before they got out of range.
It was somewhat discouraging; but, as darkness closed down, they once more headed their course, and all night they charged along at forty knots, with lights extinguished, but with every man's eyes searching the darkened horizon for other lights. They dodged a few, but daylight brought to view three cruisers ahead and to port that showed unmistakable hostility in the shape of screaming shells and solid shot.
Again they charged to the north, and it was mid-day before the cruisers were dropped. They were French, as all knew by their build.
Though there was no one navigating the boat, Denman, in view of future need of it, took upon himself the winding of the chronometers; and the days went on, Casey and Munson reporting messages sent from shore to ship; battle-ships, cruisers, scouts, and destroyers appearing and disappearing, and their craft racing around the Atlantic like a hunted fox.
Jenkins did his best to keep track of the various courses; but, not skilled at "traverse," grew bewildered at last, and frankly intimated that he did not know where they were.
Onemorning there was a council of war amidships to which Denman was not invited until it had adjourned as a council to become a committee of ways and means. Then they came aft in a body, and asked him to navigate.
"No," said Denman, firmly, rising to his feet and facing them. "I will not navigate unless you surrender this craft to me, and work her back to Boston, where you will return to the prison."
"Well, we won't do that," shouted several, angrily.
"Wait, you fellows," said Jenkins, firmly, "and speak respectfully to an officer, while he acts like one. Mr. Denman, your position need not be changed for the worse. You can command this boat and all hands if you will take us to the African coast."
"Mypositionwould be changed," answered Denman. "If I command this boat, I take her back to Boston, not to the African coast."
"Very well, sir," said Jenkins, a shade of disappointmenton his face. "We cannot force you to join us, or help us; so—well, come forward, you fellows."
"Say, Jenkins!" broke in Forsythe. "You're doing a lot of dictating here, and I've wondered why! Who gave you the right to decide? You admit your incompetency; you can't navigate, can you?"
"No, I cannot," retorted Jenkins, flushing. "Neither can I learn, at my age. Neither can you."
"I can't?" stormed Forsythe, his eyes glaring white as he glanced from Jenkins to Denman and back. "Well, I'll tell you I can. I tell you I haven't forgotten all I learned at school, and that I can pick up navigation without currying favor from this milk-fed thief. You know well"—he advanced and held his fist under Denman's face—"that I won the appointment you robbed me of, and that the uniform you wear belongs to me."
At the first word Denman's heart gave the old, familiar thump and jump into his throat. Then came a quick reaction—a tingling at the hair roots, an opening of the eyes, followed by their closing to narrow slits, and, with the full weight of his body behind, he crashed his fist into Forsythe's face, sending him reeling and whirling to the deck.
He would have followed, to repeat the punishment, but the others stopped him. In an intoxication of ecstasy at the unexpected adjustment of his mental poise, he struck out again and again, and floored three or four of them before Jenkins backed him against the companion.
"He's broken his parole—put him in irons—chuck him overboard," they chorused, and closed around him threateningly, though Forsythe, his hand to his face, remained in the background.
"That's right, sir," said Jenkins, holding Denmanat the end of one long arm. "You have violated your agreement with us, and we must consider you a prisoner under confinement."
"All right," panted Denman. "Iron me, if you like, but first form a ring and let me thrash that dog. He thrashed me at school when I was the smaller and weaker. I've promised him a licking. Let me give it to him."
"No, sir, we will not," answered Jenkins. "Things are too serious for fighting. You must hand me that pistol and any arms you may have, and be confined to the wardroom. And you, Forsythe," he said, looking at the victim, "if you can master navigation, get busy and make good. And you other ginks get out of here. Talk it over among yourselves, and if you agree with Forsythe that I'm not in command here, get busy, too, and I'll overrule you."
He released Denman, moved around among them, looking each man steadily in the face, and they straggled forward.
"Now, sir," he said to Denman, "come below."
Denman followed him down the companion and into the wardroom. Knowing the etiquette as well as Jenkins, he led him to his room, opened his desk and all receptacles, and Jenkins secured the revolver.
"Is this all you have, sir?" asked Jenkins.
"Why do you ask that?" answered Denman, hotly. "As a prisoner, why may I not lie to you?"
"Because, Mr. Denman, I think you wouldn't. However, I won't ask; I'll search this room and the whole boat, confiscating every weapon. You will have the run of your stateroom and the wardroom, but will not be allowed on deck. And you will not be annoyed, except perhaps to lend Forsythe any books he may want. He's the only educated man in the crowd."
"Better send him down under escort," responded Denman, "if you want him back."
"Yes, yes, that'll be attended to. I've no part in your private affairs, sir; but you gave him one good one, and that ought to be enough for a while. If you tackle him again, you'll have the whole bunch at you. Better let well enough alone."
Denman sat down in his room, and Jenkins departed. Soon he came back with three others—the steadiest men of the crew—and they made a systematic search for weapons in the wardroom and all staterooms opening from it. Then they locked the doors leading to the captain's quarters and the doors leading forward, and went on deck, leaving Denman a prisoner, free to concoct any antagonistic plans that came to his mind.
But he made none, as yet; he was too well-contented and happy, not so much in being released from a somewhat false position as a prisoner under parole as in the lifting of the burden of the years, the shame, humiliation, chagrin, and anger dating from the school-day thrashing. He smiled as he recalled the picture of Forsythe staggering along the deck. The smile became a grin, then a soft chuckle, ending in joyous laughter; then he applied the masculine leveler of all emotion—he smoked.
The staterooms—robbed of all weapons—were left open, and, as each room contained a deadlight, or circular window, he had a view of the sea on each beam, but nothing ahead or astern; nor could he hear voices on deck unless pitched in a high key, for the men, their training strong upon them, remained forward.
There was nothing on either horizon at present. The boat was storming along to the southward, as he knew by a glance at the "telltale" overhead, and all seemed well with the runaways until a suddenstopping of the engines roused him up, to peer out the deadlights, and speculate as to what was ahead.
But he saw nothing, from either side, and strained his ears for sounds from the deck. There was excitement above. Voices from forward came to him, muffled, but angry and argumentative. They grew louder as the men came aft, and soon he could distinguish Jenkins' loud profanity, drowning the protests of the others.
"She's afire and her boats are burned. There's a woman aboard. I tell you we're not going to let 'em drown. Over with that boat, or I'll stretch some o' you out on deck— Oh, you will, Forsythe?"
Then came a thud, as of the swift contact of two hard objects, and a sound as of a bag of potatoes falling to the deck, which told Denman that some one had been knocked down.
"Go ahead with the machine, Sampson," said Jenkins again, "and forward, there. Port your wheel, and steer for the yacht."
Denman sprang to a starboard deadlight and looked. He could now see, slantwise through the thick glass, a large steam yacht, afire from her mainmast to her bow, and on the still intact quarter-deck a woman frantically beckoning. Men, nearer the fire, seemed to be fighting it.
The picture disappeared from view as the boat, under the impulse of her engines and wheel, straightened to a course for the wreck. Soon the engines stopped again, and Denman heard the sounds of a boat being lowered. He saw this boat leave the side, manned by Hawkes, Davis, Forsythe, and Kelly, but it soon left his field of vision, and he waited.
Then came a dull, coughing, prolonged report, and the voices on deck broke out.
"Blown up!" yelled Jenkins. "She's sinking forward! She's cut in two! Where are they? Where'sthe woman? That wasn't powder, Riley. What was it?"
"Steam," answered the machinist, coolly. "They didn't rake the fires until too late, I suppose, and left the engine under one bell possibly, while they steered 'fore the wind with the preventer tiller."
"They've got somebody. Can you see? It's the woman! Blown overboard. See any one else? I don't."
Riley did not answer, and soon Jenkins spoke again.
"They're coming back. Only the woman—only the woman out o' the whole crowd."
"They'd better hurry up," responded Riley. "What's that over to the nor'ard?"
"Nothing but a tramp," said Jenkins, at length. "But we don't want to be interviewed. Bear a hand, you fellows," he shouted. "Is the woman dead?"
"No—guess not," came the answer, through the small deadlight. "Fainted away since we picked her up. Burned or scalded, somewhat."
Denmansaw the boat for a moment or two as it came alongside, and noticed the still form of the woman in the stern sheets, her face hidden by a black silk neckerchief. Then he could only know by the voices that they were lifting her aboard and aft to the captain's quarters. But he was somewhat surprised to see the door that led to these quarters opened by Jenkins, who beckoned him.
"We've picked up a poor woman, sir," he said, "and put her in here. Now, we're too busy on deck to 'tend to her, Mr. Denman, and then—we don't know how; but—well, you're an educated man, anda gentleman. Would you mind? I've chased the bunch out, and I won't let 'em bother you. It's just an extension of your cruising radius."
"Certainly," said Denman. "I'll do what I can for her."
"All right, sir. I'll leave this door open, but I must lock the after companion."
He went on deck by the wardroom stairs, while Denman passed through to the woman. She lay on a transom, dripping water from her clothing to the carpet, and with the black cloth still over her face; but, on hearing his footsteps, she removed it, showing a countenance puffed and crimson from the scalding of the live steam that had blown her overboard. Then, groaning pitifully, she sat up, and looked at him through swollen eyelids.
"What is it?" she exclaimed, weakly. "What has happened? Where is father?"
"Madam," said Denman, gently, "you have been picked up from a steam yacht which exploded her boilers. Are you in pain? What can I do for you?"
"I don't know. Yes, I am in pain. My face."
"Wait, and I will get you what I can from the medicine-chest."
Denman explored the surgeon's quarters, and returned with bandages and a mixture of linseed oil and lime water. He gently laved and bound the poor woman's face, and then led her to the captain's berth.
"Go in," he said. "Take off your wet clothes, and put on his pajamas. Here they are"—he produced them from a locker—"and then turn in. I will be here, and will take care of you."
He departed, and when he saw the wet garments flung out, he gathered them and hung them up to dry. It was all he could do, except to look through the surgeon's quarters for stimulants, which hefound. He poured out a strong dose of brandy, which he gave to the woman, and had the satisfaction of seeing her sink into profound slumber; then, returning to the wardroom, he found Jenkins waiting for him.
"I am after a sextant, Mr. Denman," he said, "an almanac—a nautical almanac. Forsythe wants them."
"You must find them yourself, then," answered Denman. "Neither under parole nor confinement will I aid you in any way unless you surrender."
"Nonsense," said Jenkins, impatiently, as he stepped past Denman, and approached a bookcase. "When we're through with the boat you can have her."
He had incautiously turned his back. Denman saw the protruding butt of his pistol in Jenkins' pocket, and, without any formulated plan for the future, only seeing a momentary advantage in the possession of the weapon, pounced on his shoulders, and endeavored to secure it.
But he was not able to; he could only hold on, his arms around Jenkins' neck, while the big sailor hove his huge body from side to side, and, gripping his legs, endeavored to shake him off.
No word was spoken—only their deep breathing attested to their earnestness, and they thrashed around the wardroom like a dog and a cat, Denman, in the latter similitude, in the air most of the time. But he was getting the worst of it, and at last essayed a trick he knew of, taught him in Japan, and to be used as a last resort.
Gripping his legs tightly around the body of Jenkins, he sagged down and pressed the tips of his forefingers into two vulnerable parts of the thick neck, where certain important nerves approach the surface—parts as vulnerable as the heel of Achilles. Stillclinging, he mercilessly continued the pressure, while Jenkins swayed back and forth, and finally fell backward to the floor.
Denman immediately secured the pistol; then, panting hard, he examined his victim. Jenkins was breathing with the greatest difficulty, but could not speak or move, and his big eyes glared piteously up at his conqueror. The latter would have ironed him at once, but the irons were forward in the armroom, so he temporarily bound him hand and foot with neckties replevined from his fellow officers' staterooms.
Then, relieving Jenkins of his keys, he went through the forward door to the armroom, from which he removed, not only wrist and leg arms, but every cutlass and service revolver that the boat was stocked with, and a plentiful supply of ammunition.
First properly securing the still inert and helpless Jenkins, he dragged him to a corner, and then stowed the paraphernalia of war in his room, loading as many as a dozen of the heavy revolvers.
He was still without a plan, working under intense excitement, and could only follow impulses, the next of which was to lock the wardroom companion down which Jenkins had come, and to see that the forward door and the after companion were secured. This done, he sat down abreast of his prisoner to watch him, and think it out. There was no change in Jenkins; he still breathed hard, and endeavored unsuccessfully to speak, while his eyes—the angry glare gone from them—looked up inquiringly.
"Oh, you're all right, Captain Jenkins," said Denman. "You'll breathe easier to-morrow, and in a week, perhaps, you may speak in a whisper; but you are practically deprived from command. So make the best of it."
Jenkins seemed willing to, but this did not solvethe problem; there were twelve other recalcitrants on deck who might not be so easily jujutsued into weakness and dumbness.
As the situation cleared, he saw two ways of solving it, one, to remain below, and from the shelter of his room to pot them one by one as they came down; the other, to take the initiative, assert himself on deck behind the menace of cocked revolvers, and overawe them into submission.
The first plan involved hunger, for he could eat nothing not provided by them; the other, a quick and certain ending of the false position he was in—a plan very appealing to his temperament.
He rose to his feet with a final inspection of Jenkins' bonds, and, going to his room, belted and armed himself with three heavy revolvers, then opened the wardroom companion door, and stepped to the deck. No one was in sight, except the man at the wheel, not now steering in the close, armored conning tower, but at the upper wheel on the bridge.
He looked aft, and, spying Denman, gave a shout of warning.
But no one responded, and Denman, with a clear field, advanced forward, looking to the right and left, until he reached the engine-room hatch, down which he peered. Riley's anxious face looked up at him, and farther down was the cringing form of King, his mate of the starboard watch. Denman did not know their names, but he sternly commanded them to come up.
"We can't leave the engines, sir," said Riley, shrinking under the cold argument of two cold, blue tubes pointed at them.
"Shut off your gas, and never mind your engines," commanded Denman. "Come up on deck quietly, or I'll put holes in you."
King shut off the gas, Riley turned a valve thateased off the making steam, and the two appeared before Denman.
"Lie down on deck, the two of you," said Denman, sharply. "Take off your neckerchiefs, and give them to me."
They obeyed him. He took the two squares of black silk—similar to that which had covered the face of the rescued woman, and with them he bound their hands tightly behind their backs.
"Lie still, now," he said, "until I settle matters."
They could rise and move, but could not thwart him immediately. He went forward, and mounted to the bridge.
"How are you heading?" he demanded, with a pistol pointed toward the helmsman.
"South—due south, sir," answered the man—it was Davis, of the starboard watch.
"Leave the wheel. The engine is stopped. Down on deck with you, and take off your neckerchief."
Davis descended meekly, gave him his neckerchief, and was bound as were the others. Then Denman looked for the rest.
So far—good. He had three prisoners on deck and one in the wardroom; the rest were below, on duty or asleep. They were in the forecastle—the crew's quarters—in the wireless room below the bridge, in the galley just forward of the wardroom. Denman had his choice, and decided on the forecastle as the place containing the greatest number. Down the fore-hatch he went, and entered the apartment. A man rolled out of a bunk, and faced him.
"Up with your hands," said Denman, softly. "Up, quickly."
The man's hands went up. "All right, sir," he answered, sleepily and somewhat weakly. "My name's Hawkes, and I haven't yet disobeyed an order from an officer."
"Don't," warned Denman, sharply. "Take off your neckerchief."
Off came the black silk square.
"Wake up the man nearest you. Tie his hands behind his back, and take off his necktie."
It was a machinist named Sampson who was wakened and bound, with the cold, blue tube of Denman's pistol looking at him; and then it was Dwyer, his watch mate, and Munson, the wireless man off duty, ending with old Kelly, the gunner's mate—each tied with the neckerchief of the last man wakened, and Hawkes, the first to surrender, with the neckerchief of Kelly.
"On deck with you all," commanded Denman, and he drove them up the steps to the deck, where they lay down beside Riley, King, and Davis. None spoke or protested. Each felt the inhibition of the presence of a commissioned officer, and Denman might have won—might have secured the rest and brought them under control—had not a bullet sped from the after companion, which, besides knocking his cap from his head, inflicted a glancing wound on his scalp and sent him headlong to the deck.
Afterthe rescue of the woman, all but those on duty had mustered forward near the bridge, Jenkins with a pair of binoculars to his eyes inspecting a receding steamer on the horizon, the others passing comments. All had agreed that she was a merchant craft—the first they had met at close quarters—but not all were agreed that she carried no wireless equipment. Jenkins, even with the glasses, could not be sure, but hewassure of one thing, he asserted. Eventhough the steamer had recognized and reported their position, it made little difference.
"Well," said Forsythe, "if she can report us, why can't we? Why can't we fake a report—send out a message that we've been seen a thousand miles north?"
"That's a good idea," said Casey, the wireless man off duty. "We needn't give any name—only a jumble of letters that spell nothing."
"How far can you send with what you've got?" asked Jenkins.
"With those aërials," answered Casey, glancing aloft at the long gridiron of wires, "about fifty miles."
"Not much good, I'm afraid," said Jenkins. "Lord knows where we are, but we're more than fifty miles from land."
"That as far as you can reason?" broke in Forsythe. "Jenkins, you're handy at a knockdown, but if you can't use what brain you've got, you'd better resign command here. I don't know who elected you, anyhow."
"Are you looking for more, Forsythe?" asked Jenkins, taking a step toward him. "If you are, you can have it. If not, get down to your studies, and find out where this craft is, so we can get somewhere."
Forsythe, hiding his emotions under a forced grin, retreated toward the fore-hatch.
"I can give you the latitude," he said, before descending, "by a meridian observation this noon. I picked up the method in one lesson this morning. But I tell you fellows, I'm tired of getting knocked down."
Jenkins watched him descend, then said to Casey: "Fake up a message claiming to be from some ship with a jumbled name, as you say, and be ready to send it if he gets our position."
"Then you think well of it?"
"Certainly. Forsythe has brains. The only trouble with him is that he wants to run things too much."
Casey, a smooth-faced, keen-eyed Irish-American, descended to consult with hisconfrère, Munson; and Forsythe appeared, swinging a book. Laying this on the bridge stairs, he passed Jenkins and walked aft.
"Where are you going?" asked the latter.
Forsythe turned, white with rage, and answered slowly and softly:
"Down to the officers' quarters to get a sextant or a quadrant. I found that book on navigation in the pilot-house, but I need the instrument, and a nautical almanac. That is as far as my studies have progressed."
"You stay out of the officers' quarters," said Jenkins. "There's a man there who'll eat you alive if you show yourself. You want a sextant and nautical almanac. Anything else?"
"That is all."
"I'll get them, and, remember, you and the rest are to stay away from the after end of the boat."
Forsythe made no answer as Jenkins passed him on the way aft, but muttered: "Eat me alive? We'll see."
Riley, one of the machinists, appeared from the engine-room hatch and came forward, halting before Forsythe.
"Say," he grumbled, "what call has that big lobster to bullyrag this crowd the way he's been doin'? I heard him just now givin' you hell, and he gave me hell yesterday when I spoke of the short oil."
"Short oil?" queried Forsythe. "Do you mean that——"
"I mean that the oil won't last but a day longer. We've been storming along at forty knots, and eating up oil. What'll we do?"
"God knows," answered Forsythe, reflectively. "Without oil, we stop—in mid-ocean. What then?"
"What then?" queried Riley. "Well, before then we must hold up some craft and get the oil—also grub and water, if I guess right. This bunch is hard on the commissary."
"Riley," said Forsythe, impressively, "will you stand by me?"
"Yes; if you can bring that big chump to terms."
"All right. Talk to your partners. Something must be done—and he can't do it. Wait a little."
As though to verify Riley and uphold him in his contention, Daniels, the cook, came forward from the galley, and said: "Just about one week's whack o' grub and water left. We'll have to go on an allowance." Then he passed on, but was called back.