One of the last comers was just a youngster in years, but evidently qualified for his dangerous calling.
“By the ghost of Bloomsbury Park,” he exclaimed, when extending a helping hand to Jimmy, and when the latter’s face showed in the shine of the flare, “if it isn’t Stetson!”
“I’ll be blowed if it isn’t Ned!” Jimmy had joined familiar company, it seemed.
“Seven hands ’round, Jimmy,” cried the young sailor, “did you drop from the clouds?”
“No,” said Jimmy, wringing the water from his cap, “I came by the boiler route to help celebrate your birthday.”
In the meantime, Jimmy’s fellow swimmers had been assisted to the deck, and were practicing again the art of drawing a long breath.
All of the wet ones had begun to shiver, for the wind had a sharp edge to it.
“Bring them below”—this command from the conning tower, by a fourth sailor, who appeared to speak with authority.
Glad of the chance to get under cover, the chilly explosion survivors followed the officer below the hatch, and immensely enjoyed the warmth of the snug quarters.
“You’ll find this isn’t much of a passenger boat, my lads; it fits too tight to suit most people.” This remark from the officer showing the way.