“Well, I should say not,” laughed Ned. “It would be like an inflated paper bag getting the impact of a good, healthy fist.
“Have you seen our quarters below?” inquired Ned, to change the subject.
“Have I? I should say so. Not much like the old Manhattan’s forecastle. There isn’t room to swing a cat without scraping its whiskers off.”
“No, in craft of this kind everything is sacrificed to engine space. Speed is the thing.”
“Well, I guess you’ll soon see some. Wait till we get out of the Ambrose Channel and turn our nose southward.”
“Can’t come too swift for me,” confidently asserted Herc.
The conversation of the two young men was interrupted at this moment by a boatswain’s mate. He ordered them forward to attend to some brasswork.
“Same old chores to be done even aboard a destroyer,” sighed Herc.
It may be said here that both Ned and Herc had practically received their rating as boatswain’s mates, but, owing to red tape, they had not received their appointments when the time came for sailing on the Beale. The destroyer carried a picked crew for the special service on which she was going, and Ned and Herc, to their huge delight, had been recommended by Captain Dunham for duty. Their present commander, Lieutenant Timmons, was the officer whom Ned had saved when the turret on the Manhattan was filled with the deadly gases and flames of the flare-back.
“Never mind,” Ned comforted, as the two boys went forward to get their rags and “brass dope,” “we’ll get our rating before this cruise is over.”