“Go ahead, when you’re ready,” nodded Private Fitch, turning and strolling back.
A full two minutes Reardon waited. Then, making no further effort to walk softly, the big fellow stepped down the passage way.
“Looking for a berth in the brig?” asked Fitch, jocosely.
“Now, why should I?” demanded Reardon. “And me a good conduct man. ’Tis more likely you’ll get a place there yourself.”
“Not me,” returned the marine. “There are only six of us and a corporal on board, and we’re all needed. You know, Reardon, marines are important people, since one marine is the fighting equal of three sailors.”
“Is it so, now?” demanded Reardon, in an amused tone, as he halted before the brig door. “What time did ye get up this morning, Mister Fitch?”
Pacing the floor behind the barred door with the restless step of a caged animal, Seaman Jordan only scowled at the bantering pair. But Reardon had halted with his back close to the steel bars. In one hand behind him was a pencil with a scrap of paper folded around it.
Jordan hesitated. He was afraid of some trap, but his position was desperate. He was accused of treason. Perhaps this big sailor was a friend in need. After a moment or two of hesitation, Jordan prolonged his walk until it brought him close to the bars. Then, while Private Fitch was glancing down at the lock of his rifle, Jordan stealthily grasped note and paper and dropped them in a pocket.
Reardon remained for a few moments more, bantering the marine good-humoredly. Soon after Reardon had gone, the marine strolled slowly out of sight. In the brief interval before he was back Jordan hastily scanned the note. It looked utterly innocent. Turning the paper over, Jordan hurriedly wrote:
“Cigarettes and matches, as soon as you get a chance. There are times when the guard isn’t here. When in action, and all hands at quarters, there’s a long chance to smoke.”