But Ned’s voice was very sober as he rejoined seriously:
“It’s a mighty serious thing, Herc, to talk about jokingly. Hundreds of human beings would have gone to their reckoning if that vessel had been a warship. That’s something to think over, isn’t it?”
The Lockyer cruised about among the wreckage awhile longer so that the officers might judge for themselves just what had been the result of the torpedoing. All agreed that it was as effective a bit of work as they had ever seen done. It being decided then that the submarine had been put through about as severe a series of tests as could be imagined, the order was given to put about and head back to Grayport.
The searchlight was extinguished, and the engines speeded up to twenty knots. Rushing along the surface, the Lockyer rapidly ate up the miles between herself and home. As she swept along, Mr. Lockyer’s face was all aglow. In a quiet aside, Captain McGill had told him something concerning the report he was going to make to the Government. Whatever that something was, it had caused the inventor’s eyes to fill with something else than gladness, as he seized Captain McGill’s hand, and exclaimed in a voice that quivered:
“I’ve worked and waited for this many weary days, sir. It’s the proudest moment of my life.”
Somehow it seemed fitting, too, that the inventor’s hopes and ambitions should come to their fruition out on the lonely sea, on board a craft being driven at racing speed by engines of his construction and design.
Block Island had been left off to starboard, and the choppy waters of the Sound were beginning to boil about them, when there came a hail from Midshipman Stark at the wheel.
“I can see the lights of a craft of some kind ahead, sir,” he reported, turning to Lieutenant Parry.
“What is she?” was the rejoinder.
“Can’t make out, sir. I—Jove, there goes a rocket. She’s in distress of some kind!”