[CHAPTER XI.]
BREAKING TWO ROOKIES.
A fresh breeze, tossing up the foamy white caps; fleecy clouds, scurrying by overhead; and, on the sparkling sea, spread in a long formidable line, the North Atlantic squadron, steaming "in column," bound for the battle practice at Guantanamo. Between each of the huge battle bulldogs, glistening wetly with the tossed-up spray, a perfect distance was maintained—as accurately as if the space between each ship in the long line were fixed permanently; yet the squadron was reeling off twenty knots an hour on its way to tropic waters.
On the fore-deck of the Manhattan, which, leviathan as she was, pitched heavily in the huge Atlantic swells, stood the two Dreadnought Boys; but a big change was manifest in the ruddy-headed Herc's smiling features, since he sat down to supper the night before the squadron sailed.
Ned regarded his chum with a smile at the other's woe-begone look.
"Cheer up, Herc," he said. "It will soon be over, you know. Sea-sickness does not last long."
"A good thing it doesn't," groaned the unfortunate Herc, "or I'd be finished with earthly woes by this time. O-oh-oh-oh!"
The exclamation was forced from Ned's cousin as the Manhattan gave an extra heavy pitch which sent the salt foam flying in a wet cloud over the port-bow.