"Come, Herc, cheer up!" he said heartily. "We're like young bears—all our troubles before us; but they'll lick us into shape, never fear."
"Oh, crickey! there you go again," groaned Herc.
"Go again—what?" demanded Ned, puzzled.
"Why, talking about 'licking us.' Do they still lick fellows in the navy, Mr. Tom?"
"No, my lad; the cat-o'-nine-tails was abolished in Uncle Sam's ships years ago," responded the old man, with a twinkle; "but we've still got the brig."
"The brig—that's a kind of a ship, isn't it?" inquired Ned.
"Not as I knows of," grinned old Tom; "but teetotal abstinence is the word when it comes to the brig, my lads. I hope you'll never form its acquaintance."
"Attention!"
The young midshipman shouted the order.
The Dreadnought Boys straightened up, as did all the other tars. The landing parties had by this time all dispersed and were straggling up the hill, playing all manner of tricks on each other, more like a lot of happy boys just out of school than anything else.