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CHAPTER X.
NED HOLDS HIS COUNSEL
The chief boatswain's mate was a far more awe-inspiring officer, in the boys' eyes, than any they had so far met. They both knew enough of the navy to realize that he and his subordinate were the class of petty officer with whom they would come most in contact during their early period of enlistment.
This dignitary on the Manhattan was a fierce-looking personage, but the boys were to learn that as the sailors say, his "bark was worse than his bite."
"Hum, recruits," he said as he looked the two boys over.
"He certainly is giving us a sizing-up," whispered Herc.
The ears of the boatswain's mate were sharper than the boys had imagined.
"Yes, I am sizing you up," he said with emphasis. "I'm thinking that you look like pretty good material."
"We mean to do our best, sir," rejoined Ned.
"That's right. That sort of ambition will carry you far. But are you not the two boys who fell overboard a short time ago?"
"I fell, and he jumped after me," corrected Herc.
"How did it happen? An accident, wasn't it?"
"Not exactly an accident," rejoined Ned.
"What then? You mean it was done on purpose?"
"I'm afraid so," was the quiet reply.
"Who did it?"
"We would prefer not to say now, sir," replied Ned in the same repressed tone.
"You mean you intend to attend to the matter in your own way?"
"Something like that," admitted Ned.
The officer looked sharply at him.
"It is my duty to warn you, my lad, that all such matters should be confided to your superior officer, and you should abide by his advice. However, unless you commit some breach of discipline, I have no concern in the affair. I must tell you, however, that I heard from some of the men that Kennell had something to do with it. Is he the man you suspect of causing the trouble?"
"I had rather not say," rejoined Ned quietly.
"Very well, as you wish it; only recollect what I have told you. Now, follow me, and we will look over your quarters. Of course, you are familiar with hammock-slinging, and all that appertains to it?"
Herc rubbed his head with a grin.
"I've got some bumps here yet that serve to remind me of my first efforts to climb into one."
"Answer me 'yes' or 'no,' please; do not try to say anything more."
"I was just explaining," muttered Herc, not heeding Ned's warning look.
They were soon assigned two places, side by side, in which they might sling their hammocks. The space devoted to the jackies' sleeping quarters was well forward under the superstructure and lighted by electric lights. It was well ventilated, and aisles of steel pillars ran in every direction. From these the hammocks were slung.
"I will now show you something of the ship, so that you may be familiar with your floating home," said the boatswain's mate; "follow me."
"I wish he'd show us some supper," whispered Herc. "I'm about as empty as a dry well."
"Never mind," rejoined Ned; "we shall soon be summoned to eat, I expect."
The boatswain's mate took them through much the same maze of steel-walled passages and heavy doors as had the messenger. After descending three decks and traversing the stern of the ship, they were shown the mighty tiller and the mechanical apparatus connecting with the wheel-house, where the steam-steering gear was installed. Then they were hurried along forward. Not, however, before the officer had shown them the emergency steam-steering gear, far below the water-line, which could be used in case a shot disabled the guiding apparatus above decks.
Forward they were conducted up steel steps onto the gun deck, and thence to a passage under the bridge and chart room, from which they emerged onto the edge of a sort of steel "well," sunk immediately below the center of the bridge.
"There are the fire-controls," said the officer, pointing down into the "well" at a lot of shapeless apparatus swathed in heavy, waterproof cloth. "We keep the range-finders and other apparatus covered while we are in port or in a damp climate."
"The fire-controls?" echoed Herc, with half a suspicion that his unfortunate head was coming in as the subject of more joking. But it was not, as the next remark of the boatswain's mate showed him.
"The gunnery officer is seated in that well, with two orderlies, at battle practice, or in actual warfare," he explained. "He is screened there from the enemy's fire; but, through narrow slits cut in the steel, he sees what is going on about him, and telegraphs the range and directs the fire. His commands are transmitted to the gun-control room electrically, and thence to the turrets."
The boys listened with deep interest.
"We will now go below again and look at the gun-control room," said the boatswain's mate, as he trotted off once more.
"He must be made of the same material as the ship," groaned Herc, as the two boys followed him.
As before, they traversed innumerable passages, passing several officers on the way, whom they, of course, saluted. In each case the salutation was returned by a brief touch of the officer's fingers to his cap rim.
"If you'd ever get lost here, you could wander round for a week without finding your way out," grumbled Herc.
"Not much chance," laughed their guide; "every part of the ship, huge as it is, is visited at least once a day by some officer. Not a corner is allowed to escape notice."
Suddenly the boatswain's mate plunged downward through a very narrow square opening, which seemed almost too small to admit his body.
The boys followed, though for a moment they had been quite startled at his sudden disappearance.
"This is a part of the ship no stout man can ever hope to penetrate," said their guide, as he clambered down a steel ladder, which the opening, through which he had crawled, led to.
"I should say not," muttered Herc, squeezing through. "It doesn't speak very much for navy food," he added to himself, "if all the sailors can squeeze through such a place as this."
At the bottom of the ladder they found themselves in a small chamber, looking not unlike the central office of a telephone exchange. It was quite hot, owing to its proximity to the boiler room.
Everywhere wires ran, with head-pieces, like those worn by operators, dangling from them. Small bells were affixed to the steel bulkhead, and a system of tiny signal lights was arranged above them.
"This is the place from which the fire is directed after the commands have been sent from the fire-control well," explained their guide. "As you see, it works like a telephone exchange. In action, an officer and four men are stationed here to attend to the signals."
"Are we under the water-line now?" asked Ned breathlessly.
"We are now twenty feet below the surface of the river," replied the boatswain's mate.
"Then, if the ship was sunk in action, the men down here would not stand a chance to escape?" queried Ned.
"No; they probably would not know that the ship had been struck till they saw the water come pouring in on them."
"Say, Ned," whispered Herc.
"What?"
"There's one job in the navy that I don't want."
"What is that?"
"To be stationed down here."
"No danger of that," laughed Ned. "Only the most expert of the crew – men to whom gunnery is a science, are assigned to these posts."
A visit to the wireless room, which was set snugly in the superstructure between the two forward and the two after funnels, completed the lads' tour of their new home.
"Now, I have done all I can for you," remarked the boatswain's mate, as he parted from the boys on the forward deck, "the rest lies in your own hands. The only part of the ship you have not seen is the magazines. As there are two and one-half million dollars' worth of explosives stored there, we naturally keep them private."
Lounging about with the other tars on the forward deck the boys found their friend, Tom Marlin. He had already heard about the accident which had resulted in Herc's involuntary immersion and Ned's voluntary ducking.
"I'm glad that you boys kept your heads," he said, after the boys had recounted their experiences and suspicions to him; "the 'old man' is very much averse to fighting; although on some of the ships of the fleet they allow the men to meet under proper conditions and fight out their grievances with boxing gloves."
"We have no intention of letting Kennell go unpunished, though," promised Ned indignantly. "Why, for all he knew, he might have drowned Herc here."
"You'd better steer clear of Kennell," warned another sailor, who had come up with three companions at this moment; "he's a dangerous man, and could eat both you kids for breakfast, without sauce or salt."
"I'm not so sure of that," breathed Ned truculently, smarting under the sense of the mean trick that had been played on his friend; "and, perhaps, before this cruise is over, he may have a chance to try."
This conversation took place on the forward deck, in the short lounging interval allowed the sailors between afternoon "setting-up" drill, and the supper bugle, which is sounded at 5:30.
As Ned voiced his intention of squaring things up at some future time, the brisk notes of the summons to the evening meal cut short further talk, and as the chiming of "three bells" mingled with the bugle's notes, the jackies descended on the mess-tables like a flight of locusts on a wheatfield. They were served with cold roast ham, potato salad, boiled potatoes, canned peaches, bread and butter, and steaming tea.
"Ah," sighed Herc, as his nostrils dilated under the odors of appetizing food, and his eye fell on the long rows of tables, spread with plates, knives and forks, with a cup at each man's elbow, "this is a lot more interesting to me right now than all the underground subways in the navy."
CHAPTER XI.
BREAKING TWO ROOKIES
A fresh breeze, tossing up the foamy white caps; fleecy clouds, scurrying by overhead; and, on the sparkling sea, spread in a long formidable line, the North Atlantic squadron, steaming "in column," bound for the battle practice at Guantanamo. Between each of the huge battle bulldogs, glistening wetly with the tossed-up spray, a perfect distance was maintained – as accurately as if the space between each ship in the long line were fixed permanently; yet the squadron was reeling off twenty knots an hour on its way to tropic waters.
On the fore-deck of the Manhattan, which, leviathan as she was, pitched heavily in the huge Atlantic swells, stood the two Dreadnought Boys; but a big change was manifest in the ruddy-headed Herc's smiling features, since he sat down to supper the night before the squadron sailed.
Ned regarded his chum with a smile at the other's woe-begone look.
"Cheer up, Herc," he said. "It will soon be over, you know. Sea-sickness does not last long."
"A good thing it doesn't," groaned the unfortunate Herc, "or I'd be finished with earthly woes by this time. O-oh-oh-oh!"
The exclamation was forced from Ned's cousin as the Manhattan gave an extra heavy pitch which sent the salt foam flying in a wet cloud over the port-bow.
It was the second morning following the fleet's departure from New York. The night before, after a day of agony, poor Herc had been hoisted into his hammock by three sailors, and now, in the early dawn, he was undergoing once more all the torments of the day previous. Ned, on the contrary, seemed unaffected by the motion of the ship in the heavy sea-way, and had escaped the toll old Neptune demands from most neophytes.
"Here, you boys," bluffly snapped a boatswain's mate, approaching the boys; "what are you doing here?" It was not the same petty officer who had shown them about the ship.
"Beg pardon, sir," said Ned, respectfully saluting, "but we haven't received any assignments yet."
"Well, lay hold of a swab and get to work."
"A swab, sir?"
"It sounds what I feel like," groaned Herc.
"Yes, a deck-mop, if you like that term better. No idlers allowed here."
"My friend here, is pretty sea-sick, sir," ventured Ned respectfully.
"Never mind; a little work will do him good – work and a good breakfast – "
"Breakfast oh-o-o-oh!" from the luckless Herc.
"Come, hammocks have been piped down for five minutes. Have you stowed yours?" demanded the boatswain's mate sharply.
"Yes, sir," replied Ned, who had performed this office both for himself and for his friend.
"Well, you will turn to with the first deck division and scrub decks."
"Very well, sir," said Ned, starting forward to where he saw a number of jackies, armed with swabs, preparing to begin the first daily task on a man-o'-war. Scrubbing and painting and cleaning brasswork are a Jackie's chief tasks at sea.
"But hold on a minute – your boots."
The boatswain's mate glared downward disapprovingly.
"Have I lost those, too?" moaned Herc.
"Take off your boots, at once. Footgear is not allowed while scrubbing decks."
"Very well, sir. Come, Herc, we must go forward."
Followed by Herc, Ned made his way to the fore superstructure, where swabs were being served out. After a little inquiry, he found his "station," and guided the half-dazed Herc into his place in the scrubbing line. Soon they were at work on one of those tasks which may seem menial, but which every boy who enters Uncle Sam's navy must learn to do without complaint.
"I didn't leave home to scrub floors," muttered Herc indignantly, his disgust getting even the better of his sea-sickness; "is this a sailor's chore?"
"Never mind, Herc; look at it from this angle – in scrubbing decks you are helping to keep your five-million-dollar home clean."
"I'd give five million dollars to be ashore," groaned Herc, a fresh paroxysm sweeping over him.
Suddenly the sharp cry of "Attention!" rang along the decks.
The scrubbing squads straightened up stiffly, and came to the position of salute.
It was the captain, making an early tour of inspection with the executive officer of the ship, Lieutenant-Commander Scott. Behind him came his orderly and a messenger. Altogether, it was quite an impressive little parade.
Ned thought that the captain, whom he had last seen quelling the onrush of the crazed stokers, glanced at him with a flash of recognition. He knew enough, however, not to betray by the flicker of an eyelash that he had ever seen his commander before.
As for Herc, he was fortunately, perhaps, past paying attention to anything.
"Tell the men to carry on," Ned heard the captain say to the boatswain's mate in charge of his scrubbing squad, as the officers passed by.
"Carry on," thought Ned; "what on earth is that?"
"Come; carry on!" said boatswain's mate sharply to Ned as the boy still stood at attention, having received no order to resume work.
Ned looked at him inquiringly, and the man saw the lad was puzzled.
"Carry on. Go on with your work," he said, and Ned at once understood the hitherto mysterious order.
Breakfast followed the swabbing-down work, and Herc, who felt somewhat revived, managed to swallow a few mouthfuls. Not enough, however, to completely restore him, and a shipmate, seeing his despondent condition, advised him to visit Pills.
"What is that?" asked the astonished boy.
"It isn't a 'what,' it's a 'he'," explained the man; "Pills is the doctor."
"Well, if there's a doctor on board, I certainly want to see him," agreed Herc; and, at seven-thirty, together with several other men, suffering from real or imaginary ills, he sought out the ship's doctor, who gave him some remedies, which soon made the boy feel all right. In fact, an hour later Herc and Ned found themselves consigned to a painting squad, working, side by side, on the big forward turret which housed the twelve-inch guns.
Beside them was another blue-jacket and old Tom, their acquaintance of their first day of naval life.
Ned felt a thrill, as, in his bosn's chair, he dangled on the side of the turret close to the glistening barrels of the huge guns, which could hurl a ponderous weight of metal, an 870-pound projectile, almost ten miles. He wondered if he would ever attain his present ambition, which was to serve on the crew in the big forward turret, the one he was then engaged in painting a dull-slate color.
Conversation is allowed among blue-jackets at work if they are discreet enough not to make their tones too loud, and relapse into silence when a petty or a commissioned officer happens along. Thus Ned and the convalescent Herc found time to ask many questions concerning the ship. Naturally, the talk drifted, as they worked, to the turret on which they were toiling.
"If I tell you boys a secret can you keep it – teetotal abstinence?" asked old Tom suddenly.
"You had better not confide in us, if you don't think so," rejoined Ned somewhat sharply.
"Oh, no harm meant," hastily put in Tom; "and at that, it isn't so much of a secret. It's been hinted at in the papers, and maybe you may have heard of it. Have you?"
"Why, how can we tell unless we know what it is?" questioned Ned, with a laugh.
"Well," confided old Tom seriously, and lowering his voice – though by this time the third man on their side of the turret was painting at some distance from them – "well, inside this here turret is one of the new Varian guns. They are the invention of Henry Varian, of Boston – "
"The inventor of that new explosive?" breathed Ned.
"Exactly; Chaosite, they call it. Well, this here gun is specially built to handle this explosive, but it's never been tried yet; and – here's the secret – Varian himself is to join us in Cuba and direct the firing tests of it. While the papers have got hold of the fact that we have the gun on board, none of them know that it is to be tested on this battle practice, or that Varian himself is to meet us at Guantanamo."
"How do you come to know all this?" asked Ned.
"Why, I'm the stroke-oar of the captain's boat – when he uses it – which isn't often, nowadays," lamented old Tom, who hadn't much use for "steamers" and gasoline launches. "Well, when we was at Key West, I rowed him ashore – helped to, that is – and I overheard him talking to this fellow Varian himself about the gun. I wasn't eavesdropping, you understand; just overheard."
"That's mighty interesting," mused Ned; "of course, I have read of the government's experiments with Chaosite. It is supposed to be, I believe, the most powerful of all explosives yet discovered. It's great to think that we are on board the first ship to try it under actual battle conditions."
"I wish we could get on the crew of that gun," put in Herc. "I'd like mighty well to see just how that Chewusite acts when it's touched off. Regular Fourth of July, I guess. Pop-boom-fizz! Up in the air! – stars! – bang – down comes the stick!"
As Herc spoke, in his newly recovered vitality, he swung his pot of slate-colored paint about, to illustrate his meaning. As ill-luck would have it, the wire handle was not oversecurely fastened, and off flew the receptacle of the pigment with which the turret was being covered.
"Oh, crickey! Now I've done it!" groaned Herc, as he felt the bucket slip from the handle and go hurtling down.
The next moment Ned echoed his chum's exclamation of dismay, as he saw what had occurred.
To make matters worse, at that very moment the redoubtable Kennell was passing beneath the turret, on his way aft to clean some brasswork, and had turned his face upward, preparatory to flinging some jeering remark at the two Dreadnought Boys.
The contents of the unlucky pot of paint fell full on his sneering features, blotting them out in a sticky cloud of gray pigment!
CHAPTER XII.
A BULLY GETS A LESSON
For a moment the big form of the paint-covered bully swayed about blindly and helplessly. Then, dashing the paint from his eyes, he emitted a roar like that of a stricken bull.
Jackies at work near at hand, who had seen the accident, gazed at Herc, who had by this time slid to the deck – in a sort of pitying way. They knew Kennell too well to suppose that he would let such an occurrence – even if it were an accident – pass by unrevenged.
"I'm sorry, Kennell; it was an accident," exclaimed Herc, one hand extended, and the other gathering up the loose end of his work-blouse; "here, let me wipe some of it off with this."
He stepped forward, with the intention of doing all he could to repair the damage he had unwittingly caused, but Kennell, with an angry sweep of his arm, waved him furiously back. To increase the bully's rage, some of the men near at hand began to laugh.
"My! what a lovely complexion the kid has when he's all rouged up!" laughed one.
"Kennell's got his battle-paint on," jeered another.
It was easy to see that none of the men particularly regretted the accident to the bully, whom none of them had any particular reason to love.
From their suspended bosn's chairs, Ned and old Tom watched the scene with some apprehensions. Ned was a shrewd enough reader of character to know that the affair could hardly end by Kennell's peaceably accepting Herc's apology; while old Tom knew Kennell's nature too well to entertain any doubt that the young seaman was in for a terrible trouncing.
"You – you – red-headed clod-hopper!" grated Kennell savagely through his mask of "war-paint," when he found his voice. Somehow, he looked so ludicrous, showing his teeth, like a snarling dog, through his panoply of pigment, that Herc, to save his life, could not have restrained himself from bursting into a hearty laugh.
"I – pardon me, Kennell; oh, ha! ha! ha! ha! I – I'm awfully sorry. Please accept my apologies. It was, ha, ha, ha, ha! an accident – really it was. Won't you forgive me?"
Herc held out his hand once more. As he did so, Ned shouted a sharp warning from above.
It came too late.
Kennell's mighty arm shot out with the speed of a piston-rod, and its impact, full on Herc's laughing face, carried the boy crashing against the side rails.
"Take that, you pup, as a starter!" hissed Kennell "and I'm not through with you yet, either. I'll keep after you two whelps till you slink out of the service."
Herc, half-stunned, clambered to his feet, and stood swaying for a moment, as if he were about to keel over altogether. He rapidly pulled himself together, however, and fixed a furious gaze on Kennell, who stood glaring at him with an upcurled lip and narrowed eyes.
Echoing the bellow that Kennell had let forth when the paint obscured his vision temporarily, Herc threw himself into a boxing attitude, and sprang straight for his opponent. It was the onslaught of a wild-cat on a bull.
"Take that, for tripping me overboard, you big coward," he snapped, as he aimed a terrific uppercut at the ship's bully.
The unexpected blow caught Kennell with the force of a young battering-ram. Full on the point of his blunt jaw it landed, and raised him a good foot off the deck. He came crashing down like a felled tree, in a heap at the foot of the turret's barbette.
He lay there, seemingly senseless, while the ship plunged onward, and a thin stream of red began to trickle from his head and spread over the newly whitened deck.
Herc gazed down at his handiwork in consternation.
What if he had killed the man? Kennell lay there so still that it seemed reasonable to suppose that his life might be extinct. The stream of blood, too, alarmed Herc, who had struck out more on impulse than with any well-defined idea of knocking out the ponderous "Kid Kennell."
"Kennell, Kennell!" he breathed, bending over the prostrate man. "Speak! Are you badly hurt?"
"Leave him alone, matey," counseled old Tom, who, with Ned, had slid down from the turret-side. "He's a long way from dead. He's just asleep for a few minutes, and only got what was coming to him."
"Oh, is he all right?" questioned Herc, much relieved.
"Sure; it would take a harder punch than you've got to hurt 'Kid' Kennell seriously," put in a sailor at Herc's elbow; "but Heaven help you when the kid gets about again."
"Why?" asked Herc simply.
"Why? Oh, Lord!" groaned the sailors mirthfully, "why, red-head, he'll pound that ruby-colored head of yours into the middle of next Fourth of July or pink calves'-foot jelly."
"Carry on, men! Carry on!" exclaimed a boatswain's mate, coming round the barbette at this moment.
"Why, what's all this?" he exclaimed the next minute, as his eyes lighted on the recumbent and paint-smeared figure of Kennell, and the flushed faces and anxious eyes of Ned and Herc.
"It's Kennell, sir; he's knocked out," volunteered one of the jackies.
"So I see. Who has so grossly violated the rules of the service as to have been guilty of fighting?"
All eyes rested on poor Herc, who, coloring up to the roots of his colorful thatch, said, in a low voice:
"I have, sir."
Though the lad's tone was low, his voice never quavered.
"What you – Recruit Taylor – fighting?" queried the amazed boatswain's mate, who was no stranger to the record of the redoubtable Kennell, and inwardly marveled at what sort of fighting machine Herc must be to have laid him low.
"Yes, sir; I'm sorry to say that I have," replied Herc, looking his superior straight in the eyes.
At this juncture the officer of the deck hastened up. From his station amidships he had noted the sudden cessation of all activity forward. He had at once hastened to see what had occurred to stop the monotonous clock-work of the routine duties aboard.
"What's all this, Stowe?" he shot out sharply at the boatswain's mate, as his eyes took in the scene.
All the jackies had come to attention as the officer hurried up, but at his sharp command of:
"Carry on, men!" the work had gone forward, apparently as before, although, as my readers will judge, the men had one eye on their work and another on the scene that now transpired.
"Why, as well as I can make out, sir, this young recruit here, sir – Taylor, sir – has been fighting with Kennell, here, sir, and – "
"Seemingly knocked him out," snapped the officer, as Kennell began to stir. He sat up, blinking his eyes like a man who has been summoned back from another world.
As the bully rose, the officer – a young man with a good-natured face – suddenly coughed violently and turned to the rail. His shoulders heaved and his handkerchief was stuffed up to his face.
The boatswain's mate gazed at him apprehensively. He thought his superior had become suddenly ill. As a matter of fact the sight of Kennell's puzzled countenance, blinking through the paint and vital fluid, with which his features were bedaubed, had been too much for the officer's gravity, and he had been compelled to turn away or suffer a severe loss of his dignity by bursting into a roar of laughter.
Finally he recovered himself, and turned, with a still quivering lip, which he bit incessantly, toward the battered Kennell and the others.
"What explanation have you to make of this?" he demanded of Herc, in as unshaken and stern a voice as if he had never suffered the loss of an ounce of his gravity.
Poor Herc saluted and shuffled uneasily from one foot to another.
"Oh, I know he'll make a mess of it," thought Ned to himself. "I wish the regulations would allow me to speak up for him."
"Come, sir; what have you to say?" reiterated the officer, as the sorry-looking Kennell got slowly to his feet. He glowered menacingly at Herc, as recollection of what had occurred began to come back to him.
"Why, sir, that young cur – " Kennell began.
"Silence, sir!" roared the officer; "I'll attend to you when your turn comes."
"I was painting the side of the turret," began Herc; "and, quite by accident, the handle of my painting pail came off. Unfortunately, this man happened to be passing below and the stuff doused him, just like a sheep at dipping time, and – "
"Attention, sir! Never mind your comparisons. Proceed. You have not yet accounted for the extraordinary condition of this man's countenance."
"Why, sir, that's the paint," sputtered Herc, as if astonished at the officer's simplicity.
"Exactly. I understand. You say that such a thing was an accident. Possibly, it was. But how do you account for the fact that the man Kennell was lying insensible at the foot of the turret, with that cut over his eye?"
"I did that, too, sir," admitted Herc ruefully.
"What, you cut his eye like that?"
"No, sir; I guess that he must have done that when he fell. I just gave him a sleep wallop – "
"Attention, sir! Use more respectful intelligible language," said the lieutenant, suddenly becoming much more interested in some object on the far horizon; so much so that he had once more to turn his back on the Dreadnought Boys, the boatswain's mate and the open-mouthed jackies. In a minute he faced round again, as grave as before.
"I hope you are not sea-sick, sir?" began Herc solicitously, for he had observed the officer's handkerchief at his mouth. The lad could not imagine that a scene so serious to him could appear ludicrous to any one else. "If you are, Pills, the doctor, I mean – "
"Silence, sir! You need disciplining. You admit, then, that you hit this man?"
"Yes, sir, but he – "
"Silence! Answer 'yes' or 'no,' please."
"Well, 'yes'," admitted Herc.
"Why in the great horn-spoon doesn't he ask him if Kennell hit him first?" groaned Ned, regarding the examination from a prudent distance.
"This case calls for a full investigation," snapped the officer; "fighting aboard a man-o'-war is one of the most serious offenses an enlisted man can commit. Messenger!"
"Sir!"
"Get the master-at-arms, and request him to come forward and report to me at once."
"Aye, aye, sir!"
The messenger sped aft on his errand, while a dreadful silence ensued, which even the irrepressible Herc had not the courage to break.
Evidently something dire was about to happen to him.
