“‘Submarine Lockyer is fast to your stern. You are technically out of commission.—Parry, Lieutenant U. S. N.’”
“Why, there is a Lieutenant Parry in the Navy, who is attached to submarine work, sir,” stammered the officer of the deck, more mystified than ever. “Of course. He is an old friend of mine. Where is the fellow who brought this note?”
“Here, sir!” exclaimed Ned, clicking his bare heels together, and coming to an attitude of attention.
“What is the explanation of this?” demanded the commander of the Brooklyn. “How dare you have the impudence to forge Lieutenant Parry’s name? What does all this mean?”
“Perhaps you had better ask Lieutenant Parry, sir,” replied Ned quietly.
“Why—what—how? Where is he?”
“Right under the counter of your ship, sir. Or, at least, I left him there,” was the staggering rejoinder, delivered in a quiet tone.
“Young man, if you are imposing upon us, this will be a sorry night’s work for you,” was the ominous response, delivered in a meaning tone, as followed by the deck officer, with the marine sentry and the rest of the watch trailing at a respectful distance, Lieutenant-Commander Scott made his way to the stern.
“Great guns and little fishes!” he exclaimed, as he peered over the sternrail, “you were right, boy. But—how in the name of time——?”
“Ahoy there, Scott, that you?” came up from the conning-tower of the submarine, as she rode along in the stern of the gunboat, dancing about in the wash of the big boat’s propeller like a cork.