“Aye, aye, Parry,” was the rejoinder. “This is a fine joke you’ve played on me. You’ll make me the laughing stock of every mess and service club from here to Yokohama.”
“Sorry, old man,” was the cheerful reply,—somehow there didn’t seem to be much sorrow in the tones,—“but it was in the line of duty, you know.”
“Line of duty be hanged, Parry. But I’m willing to admit it was a brilliant idea.”
“Oh, it wasn’t mine. You’ll have to give the credit for it to Bos’un’s Mate Strong, who, at this minute, is standing beside you.”
“Oh, so you are Strong,” said Lieutenant-Commander Scott, turning to the lad beside him with keen interest expressed in look and voice. “I’ve heard of you before, and your shipmate Taylor. The Dreadnought Boys, they call you, don’t they? Well, young man, I have to admit that you have caught us napping. But such jokes are dangerous things to play.”
“Especially if the joke had taken place in time of war,” chuckled Lieutenant Parry. “Come, come, Scott, don’t be grouchy just because you have been fairly torpedoed. If there is any blame, it is attached to me, but when Strong suggested the prank, I could not help but think that if we could make fast to you without your knowing it, that such a feat would go pretty far toward proving the value and efficiency of the Lockyer submarine in war-time.”
Somewhat mollified, Lieutenant-Commander Scott replied in kind and, after some more talk, chiefly of a jesting character, Ned dropped over the stern, and the lines which held the Lockyer fast to the Brooklyn were cast off.
“I wouldn’t care to be in that sentry’s place,” laughed Lieutenant Parry, as the bright mast-light of the Brooklyn grew dim in the distance. “Scott always was a stickler for discipline, even at Annapolis, and he has always maintained that no ship he was in command of would ever be surprised by anything afloat. So you see, Strong, that you have been responsible for what is bound to become the biggest naval joke of a decade.”
“And now,” struck in Mr. Lockyer, “I think that it would be a good idea to head back to our home port and let all hands indulge in a good, long sleep. That is,” he added, “if no more adventures happen to us on this eventful night.”
The Lockyer, however, was not destined to have any more stirring adventures for the present, and two hours later she dropped anchor off the boatyard, with a highly successful trial trip to her credit. Channing Lockyer’s dreams that night were rosier than they had been for many a moon. And in and out of the fabric of them floated a face, the face of the girl who had broken the bottle over the bows of the gallant little diving boat—the daughter of the white-whiskered apostle of universal peace.