The door was unlocked and Ned and Herc were led out to meet a file of their ship-mates on the broad grin.
“Taylor and Strong,” said the man in charge of the detail, “we are to escort you on board.”
“You couldn’t escort us anywhere we’d rather go,” declared Herc, vehemently. “I’ll be glad when we get our anchors up for the good old U. S. A. I’m sick of foreign countries.”
“You will tell your captain that you are not to come ashore again while your ship is in port,” snapped out the sergeant who had arrested the boys.
“Thanks. We don’t tell our captain what to do. Do you order yours about?” asked Ned sweetly.
“Run along, old boiled lobster,” shot out Herc. “You couldn’t pay me to come ashore on your old rock again.”
Half an hour later the boat containing the patrol drew alongside the port gangway of the Manhattan. Ned and Herc were marched on deck as if they had been prisoners. The master-at-arms met them.
“The captain wants to see you at once,” he said.
“Wow! We’re in for a dose of the brig,” muttered Herc, “and through no fault of our own.”
Ned looked dismayed.