“I guessed it,” went on Herc serenely, “because in the United States we have a foolish habit of saying ‘please’ if we wish anything done.”
“Well, ‘please,’ then, senor. Come, I wish to talk with you, please. I know a place, not equal to the Hotel Espanola, perhaps, but where we can get a good drink——”
“Count us out then,” snapped Ned sharply, “we don’t drink.”
The stranger placed his thumb and forefinger together, elevated them to a level with his chin and, after gazing at them for a second, gave a light:
“Pouf!”
“He’ll blow away if he does that again,” muttered Herc. But apparently the man of the waxed mustache had been only taking this way of dismissing any possible offense he might have caused. He bowed low.
“Ah, well, I have made a mistake, I see. Of course not. Zee brave sailors of the Uncle Sam do not drink, nevaire. Perhaps, then, you will do me the honor of accompanying me to that drug store at the corner. I see they sell ice-cream sodas there. Will you try one of those?”
This was touching Herc Taylor in a weak spot. He gazed at his companion inquiringly. But Ned Strong’s eyes were riveted on the small wicket gate which opened in the long, gray-painted wall, a few feet from where they were standing. The wall inclosed the humming hive of activity known as the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Inside the gate stood a marine, sharply scanning all arrivals. It was his duty to protect the gateway to one of Uncle Sam’s ship hospitals, where everything from a rib to a rivet can be adjusted or replaced, even on the largest Dreadnoughts.
“We ought to report at ten-thirty. It’s ten now,” he said, gazing at a handsome gold watch he had just drawn out of his breast pocket. Inside the case it bore an inscription, “Presented to Ned Strong from Henry Varian, in slight token of the inestimable services rendered by him at Guantanamo, Cuba.”