“It’s great,” cried Ned enthusiastically; “I tell you though, it gives a fellow a funny feeling, steering right ahead into the darkness. Seems as if you were butting into something solid all the time.”
“W-w-w-what would happen if we ran into a water-logged hull?” asked little Sim, with a bit of a quaver in his voice.
“Or hit a weak-fish?” chuckled Herc.
“I tell you, lads,” put in old Tom solemnly, “if we ever hit a wreck goin’ at this clip, it would be either the wreck, or us. With chances in favor of the wreck.”
“Reckon that’s so,” rejoined Ned, with a bit of a nervous catch in his voice; “we’d crumple up like a busted egg-shell.”
“Not much doubt of that, lad,” agreed the old tar, in a sepulchral voice.
“Oh say, you fellows ought to have been undertakers,” exclaimed Herc, impatiently; “for my part,—rattlesnakes and rickshaws! I’m going to enjoy the ride and not worry about what might happen.”
“That’s right,” heartily rejoined Ned; “it’s no use worrying about what might happen. Suppose Dewey had worried about that at Manila. If you want to do any supposing, just suppose that we are creeping along now up under a hostile battleship. Presently, we will be ordered forward into the torpedo-room, and at the word of command we’ll launch one of our Whiteheads. We wouldn’t hear a sound, but as we sneaked off we’d know that we’d justified our existence. Done what we were built for.”
“Suppose we change the subject,” suggested the red-headed lad; “let’s talk about the farm. Wouldn’t old gran’pa be scared if we had him down here?”