“So she can—twenty-nine knots,” rejoined Ned, briefly and comprehensively.
“Hum! We’re crawling along like an old ferry boat.”
“Well,” laughed Ned, “it’s a good thing, too. If we made speed in this crowded river, we might run into something.”
“And sink them?”
“No, hardly. Torpedo-boat destroyers aren’t built for that kind of work. The skin of this craft isn’t much thicker than that of an orange.”
“Wow! Stop her!” exclaimed Herc.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve just remembered an important engagement ashore!”
“Too late now,” laughed Ned, as they steamed through Buttermilk Channel and headed down the bay toward the Narrows. Brooklyn Bridge lay behind them like a rainbow of steel.
“Say,” grunted Herc suddenly, as if the thought had just struck him, “it wouldn’t do for us to hit anything, would it?”