“Get up, Ferguson,” Darrin commanded. “Back to your post. You’ve no right to take your eyes away from your particular work. Get up, Jordan.”
The latter, the sailor who had been attacked, rose to his feet, sullenly rubbing his throat.
“Ferguson, why did you attack Jordan?” Dave demanded.
“Look astern, sir!” Seaman Ferguson replied, pointing to the wake of the destroyer. “Do you see that gleam on the water, sir? It’s something that Jordan dropped overboard. It’s some tricky, dirty work, sir, or I’ll eat my guess. I’ve known since last night, sir, that Jordan was tricky. He tried to get me to look another way to-night, but out of the corner of one eye I saw him drop something overboard—and then that thing in our wake began to gleam.”
By this time the solitary marine guard on deck duty had arrived aft. Beholding the commanding officer, the sea-soldier saluted and stood at attention.
“My man,” Dave ordered, “take my compliments to Lieutenant Curtin and my instructions that he is to make a careful turn and try to go back through our wake. He is to be very exact about going over the very wake of this craft. The message delivered, report back here.”
Jordan, who had turned deathly pale, glanced about him as if meditating some foolish flight.
“Now, Jordan,” Dave began, taking the young sailor firmly by the arm, “what was it you threw overboard?”
“A—a—” began the accused one.
“Yes, come out with it,” Darrin commanded.