“No accurate figures at hand. Believe enemy numbered something like thirty craft. Extreme vigilance needed until we reach port.”
“There you are,” Dave said, when the signal had been read. “Take command, Mr. Dalzell, and be the sharpest little sailor on the ocean. I’m going below on another matter.”
Once at his desk in the chart-room Dave sent for Seaman Ferguson.
“Does Seaman Jordan smoke cigarettes?” asked Darrin.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is he really addicted to them?” Dave continued.
“Is he, sir?” exclaimed Ferguson. Then: “Pardon me, sir, for answering like that. Jordan smokes his head off when he can get the chance and has enough of the pesky things.”
“Thank you,” Dave nodded. “That is all, except the caution to say nothing to any one about my question. Send Reardon here.”
Big, red-faced, with huge hands, a deeply bronzed skin and a sly, merry twinkle in his eyes, Reardon was a sailor of the best type. Dave knew the man’s loyalty and shrewdness, as well as Reardon’s great faculty for holding his tongue at need.
“Reardon,” directed Dave, “place a chair here at the desk and write a note at my dictation with this pencil.”