"You know me," he said, with a knowing wink, "Chalmers of the old Luzzy (sailor slang for the Louisiana) is an old friend of mine. He dislikes Strong as much as I do. He's the next best man in the race. If things go wrong, we've got a little system arranged to pocket friend Strong. But how about you? You are pitted against Taylor in the pole vault, aren't you?"
"Yes, and I ain't worrying, you bet."
Merritt still retained a good choice of diction, a relic of his college days, but Chance's talk was was more uncouth and less polished.
"Good! I don't mind telling you I've got some money out on myself. Enough to swamp a good deal of my pay, in fact. I've got to win."
"About the same thing here," grinned Chance; "if I lose, it's all up with me financially. I'm in pretty deep."
"Tell you what," said Merritt suddenly, "I hear that there will be extra pay and bonuses attaching to this aero duty. Let's send in applications, and then if we get trimmed in the races and jumps we will have a chance to get some extra coin."
"That's a good idea," agreed Chance. But as they started to carry out their intention, the same bugle calls that had hastened the steps of Ned and Herc recalled them to duty.
Stephen Wynn arose with a sigh, and thrust his book inside his loose blouse. "Ben Franklin" disliked to leave his studies for duty. But he was a smart sailor, and formed one of Ned's gun crew. Merritt and Chance were on one of the after turrets.
"Those fellows took care to sink their voices after they found out I'd overheard them," said Wynn to himself, as he fell in with the rest of the blue-jackets. "I'll bet that they were plotting some mischief to Strong and Taylor. At any rate, I'll put them on their guard at the first opportunity I get."