But if the hospital was not hit, damage enough had been done in all good conscience. The crowds were gone from about the wrecked Zeppelin and from the bombed schoolhouse. The shelling of open boats at sea was not a greater crime than the indiscriminate dropping of bombs on this unfortified town; and the wiping out of that school teacher and her pupils could never be forgotten. Phil Morgan turned his eyes away from the place, shuddering as he thought of the horror.
“Let’s go down to the admiral’s station—there where his white ensign flies—and report about the spy escaping from us,” Whistler said.
“And explain how he’s dressed,” Al Torrance added. “For let me tell you, that chap, speaking English and all, and dressed like one of us Yanks, will cause a lot of trouble.”
“I’d like to get something decent to put on myself,” grumbled George Belding.
“Tee, hee!” giggled Ikey Rosenmeyer. “You don’t look any more like one of these farmers than nothin’ at all!”
“Must say,” grinned Whistler, “the clothes don’t become you, George.”
“You go fish!” snapped the unfortunate. “I hate to show up aboard and face—who’s your boss, Lieutenant Commander Lang, isn’t it?”
“Cracky! Yes,” Al said. “And you are billed for the old Colodia? Say, the boys will give you a welcome!”
“How did you come to get billeted to the Colodia?” Whistler Morgan asked curiously. “You came over on your father’s yacht?”
“No,” said Belding, quietly. “I didn’t say that. I joined the crew of the one-time Sirius because when I arrived in England your old Colodia was out scrapping with the part of the Hun fleet that tried to make a break.”