It was an old trick of Jasper Ferriss’s to abruptly change the subject when things weren’t going his way.
“I am expecting the officer who will be in charge of the experiments, and his picked crew, within a few days,” was the reply. “A short time will be spent in making them familiar with the construction, and then, after she is launched, we shall go ahead with the real tests.”
“And the launching will be?”
“As soon as possible. But there will be no public ceremony. Only the workmen, who are pledged to secrecy, will know if she is a success or a failure. Naturally we wish to keep it all as quiet as possible.”
“The men are still working on her?”
The question seemed hardly necessary. Through the open windows there floated the busy sounds of activity from the fenced-in yard. From a tall, narrow shed built against the seaward side of the high fence came the loudest demonstration of activity.
A rattling volley of riveters’ hammers, accompanied by the snorting snarl of the whirring pneumatic drills eating through steel plates, was punctuated by shouted orders and the clamor of metal on metal.
“We are putting on the finishing touches,” explained Lockyer. He sighed as he spoke. The “finishing touches” he referred to might mean the last strokes of his own career as well as the end of the preliminary stages of the submarine’s construction. Ferriss’s eyes followed the tall, slender young form as the youthful inventor strode up and down the tiny office, with its tumble-down, dust-covered desks, their pigeon-holes crammed full of blueprints and working drawings. No gilt and gingerbread about Channing Lockyer’s office. It was business-like as a steam hammer.
“Looks soft as rubber,” mused Ferriss, “but he’s tough as Harveyized steel; and a blessed sight less workable.