Speake, meanwhile, had been taking the turbine to pieces. He now appeared in the periscope room with a wooden sieve half full of small fish.
“Mullet for dinner, Bob!” he laughed. “A shoal of fish was bein’ chased by the cachalot. The draft holes of our turbines was open an’ the fish run in. No wonder the turbines wouldn’t work!”
“Good enough,” answered Bob laughing, “if you can call anything good that put our turbines out of commission at a time when we needed them. Have some of them for dinner, Speake.” He turned to Dick. “Lay our course for the Port of Spain, old chap,” he added. “We’ll put into the harbor and look the submarine over to see whether her bow has been damaged any. I’ll go below and have a look at the fore rudder. Possibly we can tinker that up temporarily. It would never do to pick up the midshipman with the Grampus at all out of commission.”
“Aye, aye!” responded Dick heartily.
They were to call at the Port of Spain, after all, and Dick Ferral was mightily pleased with the prospect.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
IN QUEST OF DOCUMENTS.
The anchor of the steamship Borneo splashed into the yellow waters of the Gulf of Paria, the boat continuing onward until the anchor had taken a grip on the muddy bottom. The Borneo was from Venezuelan ports, and at La Guayra had picked up no less a personage than John Henry Glennie, Ensign, U. S. N.
The steamer carried a queer assortment of passengers, and they were all around Ensign Glennie as he sat well aft on the grating beside the hand-steering gear.
Venezuelans were chattering like magpies; little brown youngsters were rolling over and over around Glennie’s feet; a British engineer was talking with a Jew pearl buyer from Margarita Island—the Spanish coming queerly from their alien lips; a German coffee planter was exchanging small talk with the wife of a Dutch officer who lived in Curaçoa; and there was the usual ragtag and bobtail of English and Brazilians, all of whom gave the youth in the naval uniform more or less curious notice.