Mr. MacMasters looked very mysterious. "You must not ask too many questions. I am telling you, Morgan, what is generally known about the orders under which the superdreadnaught sails. But we may see plenty of real work At least, we need not suppose that the Kennebunk will run away from any enemy submarine that may appear along this coast."
"Do you believe there are German subs over here again, sir?"
"It is my private opinion that at least one is here and more are coming," declared Ensign MacMasters. "And there is a supply boat for them lying somewhere off our coast, too. We ran down that Sarah Coville yesterday, by the way, with another cargo of oil aboard. Her captain and crew will surely be interned."
Mr. MacMasters had no more time to talk with Phil Morgan then. The men being ready, the march to the dock was made, Seven Knott bringing up the rear to see that there were no loiterers.
"See that narrow streak!" ejaculated one fellow, when they came to the dock where the chaser was moored. "Oh, boy! got your sea legs with you?"
The slate-colored S. P. 888 looked to be no friend to a landsman, especially with the sea as it was just then. Beyond the craft the harbor was tossing in innumerable whitecaps, while through the breach between the capes the Atlantic itself could be seen to be in ugly mood.
They got aboard; and as soon as the moorings were cast off the newcomers were welcomed in friendly fashion, by the regular crew of the chaser, to most of whom Whistler Morgan and his three friends were already known.
"Hey, garby! where d'you sleep on this hooker?" demanded one of the strangers, hoarsely and behind the sharp of his hand, of a member of the chaser's crew. "Or do you go ashore at nights?"
"If we can't get ashore for the watch below," was the perfectly serious reply, "every man gets a hook to hang on."
"You mean to hang his hammock on?"