Here, at last, was a possible clew—and it was sailing after Glennie with kimono fluttering and pigtail flying.
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE MEETING IN THE HARBOR.
Events in this world, no matter how seemingly incomprehensible, usually happen for the best.
If the Grampus had not had her fight with the cachalot she would not have put in at Port of Spain, and if Ensign Glennie had not lost his dispatches he would not have put in there, either.
The damage to the fore rudder had been insignificant. Some of the iron bars protecting the rudder had been twisted and bent by the whale’s flukes, and Bob Steele had repaired the damage while coming through the Boca Drago into the gulf.
The submarine was riding high in the water a quarter of a mile off shore, the Stars and Stripes fluttering gayly from the little flagstaff forward. A small boat was in the water and a colored boatman was rowing two lads around the bow of the Grampus. Three men and another boy were forward on the submarine’s deck, evidently assisting in an examination of some sort.
Glennie had the skipper of the launch lay alongside the small boat.
“Hello, there!” called Glennie. “Is that boat the Grampus?”
“Yes,” replied one of the lads in the other boat.