"Halt!"
The command came like the crack of a pistol. Facing Ned stood a sentry in the uniform of the Coast Artillery. In his hands he gripped a carbine with a sinister-looking, blue-steel bayonet attached to its barrel.
"Here's where you turn back, friend, and pronto, too," grinned the sentry. He was a young fellow, with light blue eyes, stupid in expression, and a nose of the type generally described as "pug."
"I've got to get to the fort, I tell you," protested Ned.
His voice came from his parched throat like the cracked, whistling accents of a very old man. His clothes were torn in places from the beach plums, through which he had come with furious haste, his eyes were red-rimmed and wild, and his hat was gone.
The sentry regarded him contemptuously. But his was a lonely post, a quarter of a mile out on the sandy Neck, and he decided to waste a little time with this peculiar stranger.
"Say, friend, you don't want the fort. It's your cage you want. Why don't you go right back to the Bronx, climb in, and shut the gate?"
"Look here," protested Ned, "I'm Lieutenant Strong of the Navy, at least I hold that temporary commission. I've been attacked by rascals while on duty and I'm suffering frightfully from thirst."
"I guess you are suffering from thirst," grinned the sentry. "Be a good boy and get back to the bug-house now, or I'll have to help you."
He glanced significantly at his bayonet.