“Mr. Glennie!” he exclaimed, with an accent on the “mister” that was not entirely respectful. “Our brass band has been given shore leave, so we can’t muster the outfit and play you aboard. It’s a little bit hard, too, considering our limited number, to dress ship.”
A smothered laugh came from the deck of the Grampus. Glennie stared at Ferral, and then at Speake, Gaines, Clackett, and Carl. The latter, grabbing the flag halyards, dipped the ensign.
“If ve hat a gannon, Misder Glennie,” yelled Carl, “ve vould gif der atmiral’s salute.”
A flush ran through the ensign’s cheeks.
“Who is that person, Steele?” demanded Glennie, pointing to Dick.
“Mr. Steele,” corrected Bob. “This, Mr. Glennie,” with mock gravity, “is my friend, Mr. Dick Ferral. The Dutchman on the boat is another friend—Mr. Carl Pretzel. The hands are Mr. Speake, Mr. Gaines, and Mr. Clackett. This colored gentleman is Mr. Scipio Jones. Now that we are all acquainted, Mr. Glennie, may I ask you if you are coming aboard to stay?”
“I am,” was the sharp rejoinder. “Those were my orders from the captain of the Seminole.”
Bob caught a rope which Carl threw to him and stepped to the rounded deck of the Grampus.
“The submarine’s all right, Dick,” said he, “and hasn’t a dent in her anywhere. Go ashore and get the gasoline. Have you the hydrometer in your pocket?”