The two boys went down to their stateroom, and got out the precious store of chocolates and malted milk. Each boy put his share in the oil skin water-tight money belt that had been one of Mr. Leffingwell's many gifts. Their money went easily into a much smaller and less complicated carrier that each boy wore around his neck. Then, feeling ready for any emergency, they hurried back to the dark and silent deck. They stayed up until midnight. Then the wind started up, increasing in violence until the chilled watchers took refuge below.
The boys turned in.
It seemed about fifteen minutes when Porky sat up. Beany was leaning down from the upper berth.
"Did you call me?" he asked.
"No, I thought you called me," said Porky.
"All right," said Beany. He swung to the floor. "Hustle and dress. I bet some thing is on foot."
He hustled himself into his clothes and was ready as soon as Porky, who considered himself the record dresser. Together they slipped through the dark passage and went up on deck. The Firefly fled like a wild thing, cutting a swift path through a rough and choppy sea.
They went forward. Motionless, a dark blur against the sky line, they saw the lookout, his eyes searching the waste. Scudding clouds were massing in the east. A storm was on the way. The boys walked the length of the steamer and leaned over the stern, where the water boiled furiously away from the propeller. Close beside them another watch silently studied the surface of the sea. The night lifted a little. It was nearly dawn. The boys felt depressed. Porky turned and studied the sky in the east; Beany kept his keen eyes on the water behind the Firefly. Suddenly be clutched his brother's arm.
"See! See!" he cried. "Where that patch of white shows! She's coming! Look! Look!"
The glass of the lookout swept the waves. "Nothing there," he said gruffly. Then with a gasp he cried loudly, "Torpedo port; torpedo port!"