“And these fellows, sir?” asked Stark, indicating the crouching natives.
“I expect the best thing to do with them will be to place them in the hands of the government till this affair is straightened out one way or another. If we turn them loose they might do too much talking.”
And so it was arranged.
Shortly afterward the three launches arrived alongside the Beale and a surgeon was summoned to attend to Prentice’s wound. It was an ugly enough one to keep him in his hammock for some days. The consul readily undertook to see that the arms, recaptured so happily, reached the place where they would do the most good. Midshipman Stark came in for hearty congratulations, and Strong, Taylor and Stanley were not omitted in the praise showered by those who heard of the adventure.
“Those three fellows are as fine specimens of American sailors as I have encountered in many a year in the service,” said Lieutenant Timmons, as the trio went forward blushing with pleasure. “Some day it wouldn’t surprise me to see Strong and Taylor with commissions.”
“You amaze me!” exclaimed the consul. “They must be very remarkable youths.”
“They are, colonel. Did I ever tell you how they saved me and several others from a terrible death when we had that flare-back on the Manhattan? No? Well, here goes.”
Lighting a fresh cigar Lieutenant Timmons plunged into the story he never tired of telling, and with which readers of the “Dreadnought Boys on Battle Practice” are familiar.
The next morning what Herc still called the “chores” were hardly completed, and the men who smoked had scarcely ignited an after-breakfast pipe, before a summons came forward for Ned and Herc. Responding, they found Lieutenant Timmons on the quarterdeck holding a pink slip of paper in his hand. By his side stood Midshipman Stark looking very important and pleased.