“Pardon me, is this Mr. Lockyer?”
It was a warm afternoon, three days after the disgruntled Ferriss had departed, that the inventor looked up from his desk to see, standing in the open doorway of the office, a stalwart young figure that almost filled the opening. Behind the newcomer two other forms could be seen. One was that of a lad about the same age as the youth who had addressed him, and the other a squat, bowlegged old fellow, with a fringe of gray whisker running under his chin from ear to ear, like the crescent of a new moon.
“Yes, I am Mr. Lockyer,” rejoined the submarine boat builder, looking up quickly at his visitors. “Come in, won’t you? What can I do for you?”
As the lad who had first spoken advanced into the dingy office, Lockyer saw that he was a sun-bronzed young chap of about seventeen, dressed quietly, but neatly, in a gray-mixture suit. His companion, whose round, good-natured face was crowned by a shock of red hair, was about the same age and also wore a suit of plain but well-fitting clothes. The third member of the party, however, as before hinted, was a startling contrast. His stout figure was garbed in a checked suit, capable, at a pinch, of acting as a checker board; a singularly small derby hat hung to one side of his head, seemingly only being secured from slipping off by an outstanding ear; and round his neck was tied a silk handkerchief of gorgeous hue. Jacob’s coat would have looked pale and colorless in comparison with it.
The countenance of this gaudily apparelled person offered a singular contrast to his violent clothes. It was round, weather-beaten and good-natured, the face of a hale and hearty old fellow who has lived an outdoor life. Two blue eyes, set deep in a mass of furrows and crow’s-feet, twinkled brightly as he looked about him.
“My name is Ned Strong, boatswain’s mate of the Manhattan,” introduced Ned, who had been the first to enter the office. “This is my shipmate, Boatswain’s Mate Hercules Taylor, and this”—turning to the spectacularly garbed old man, “is Tom Marlin.”
“Aye, aye!” rumbled old Tom, from sheer force of habit.
“Why, you are some of the men who are detailed to the trial crew that is to try out my boat, are you not?” inquired the inventor, extending his hand cordially as he rose from his desk.
“Yes, sir,” nodded Ned. “We arrived a few minutes ago, and after engaging rooms at the hotel in the village we came down here. We thought that Lieutenant Parry might have arrived.”
“Why, no. I’ve just had a wire from him saying that he cannot get here till some time this evening. It seems to me,” went on Mr. Lockyer, surveying his guests with interest, “that you two lads must be the ones the newspapers call the ‘Dreadnought Boys.’”