“Say,” whispered old Tom Marlin hoarsely, “I know that whiskered craft Pangloss. I’ve seed his picters in ther papers. He’s a crank of peace. He was speaking at one peace meeting where some one disagreed with him and he busted a water pitcher over their heads.
“‘I will have peace,’ says he, ‘if we’ve got ter have war ter git it.’”
“He must be Irish,” laughed Ned. “Seriously, though, now you speak of it, I do recall who he is.”
“A celebrity?” inquired Sim, who had been quite overawed by the fiery manner of the apostle of peace.
“In a way, yes. He amassed a fortune manufacturing steel.”
“The material of which warships are built, eh?” chuckled Herc; “that’s a good one. If it hadn’t been for the navy, where would he have been.”
“Not only that,” went on Ned, “but I understand that in his eagerness to get contracts he did not hesitate to stump the country at one time, advocating a bigger navy and more guns.”
“And now he has his fortune he’s blowing cold again,” put in Tom.
“Seems so. But just look how attentively Mr. Lockyer is bending over the old man’s daughter. She’s looking up at him, too, as if she thought a whole lot of him. Look at the old man glaring at them. I’ll bet he’s mad.”
Ned guessed just right. Years before, when Lockyer was just out of college, he had obtained employment as a chemist in the Pangloss Steel Works at Pittsburg. As he accepted the position more for experience than for the pay, which was small—his father allowing him an ample allowance—he naturally had some good introductions. Among the homes he visited had been that of his employer, where he met Miss Vivian. She had been deeply interested in the young man’s work, and when the submarine idea—upon which he was working at the time—was complete, he made her his confidant.