“Ha! I wish I knew!” was the retort. “Looked like a storm this morning—red sun and everything. Now I’ll be jiggered if I don’t think we’re in for the doldrums!”
“What’s he saying?” asked another soldier lad of Jerry. “Does he mean some disease may break out?”
“No,” answered the tall lad, with a smile. “Doldrum means a calm—a dead calm. Ships often run into the doldrums near the equator.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind what we ran into, if we could only move,” was the dismal retort.
“That’s the trouble,” voiced Ned. “The doldrums are the worst calms ever—no motion at all.”
“Good-night!” cried the seeker after information.
Passing through a corridor below decks on their way to seek some of their friends to try to organize something that would while away the dreary monotony, the three chums approached a closed cabin door.
And Bob remarked:
“Why, they’ve taken the marine guards away! I wonder what that means?”
Before his companions could join in his speculation the door of the cabin opened, and through the opening the lads caught sight of a figure. It was the figure of a little bald-headed man, and he wore large spectacles. He was bending over a mass of papers on a table in front of him, and, at the sight of this individual, Ned, Bob, and Jerry, as if in the same voice, exclaimed: