“Then we may as well go also,” declared Lord Hastings. “Shape your course due west, Mr. Templeton.”
“Very good, sir,” replied Jack, saluting, and he disappeared below.
Lord Hastings and Frank continued to peer at the flotilla of German small boats, which, at a command from the officer in charge, had shipped their oars and were pulling toward the east with lusty strokes.
“I hope they make land safely, or are picked up,” said Frank.
“So do I,” replied his commander. “Come, we shall go below.”
The D-16 again on her way, Frank betook himself to his own quarters, which he and Jack shared together. Here he was surprised to see the latter cutting a notch on the side of the highly polished small table in the center of the cabin.
“What are you doing there?” he asked in surprise. “What are you cutting up that table for?”
“Well,” said Jack, “in reading some of your American literature, I learned that every time one of your wild westerners killed a man he cut a notch on his gun. I’m following along the same lines, only I intend to cut a notch on this table every time we sink one of the enemy.”
“Quite an idea, that,” said Frank. “But when you say you read that stuff in American literature, you are wrong. I won’t deny that you have read it, but I’d call it American fiction, not literature.”
“Never mind,” said Jack, “it’ll answer my purpose, whatever you call it.”