The little steamer made quick time between the landing-stage and the grim, gray dreadnought. Behind her, reaching as far as the Golden Gate, spread a long line of Uncle Sam’s slate-colored sea-fighters swinging at anchor. What a fine picture the array of battleships presented! Strings of bright-colored bunting depending from their signal halliards relieved the sinister monotone of battle color, and from bridge to bridge the bright scarlet of the “wig-wag” flags could be seen cutting circles and arcs as from ship to ship flashed news and orders. It was an old picture to Ned, but it thrilled him and inspired him just as much there in San Francisco Bay as it had on that day that seemed so long ago when he and Herc stood in Riverside Park in New York, raw recruits, and gazed their first upon the huge fighting machine of which they were to become parts.
The steamer ran around to the port gangway and made fast. The delinquents, a crestfallen unhappy-looking parade, were marched on deck with the patrol guarding them in on each side. Ned couldn’t help feeling a quick flush of pride as he noticed the astonished glance of the officer of the deck when he saw Ned’s flock of black sheep that had been so speedily rounded up.
“All present, sir!” said Ned, bringing his heels together with a smart click, and saluting the functionary, who was distinguished by carrying a telescope slung over his shoulder.
“What, you got them all?”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“Take them before the master-at-arms. You will appear at the mast at a time appointed by the commander and give your evidence against them.”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“Carry on!”
The deck officer turned away and Ned and his patrol marched their unhappy band of prisoners before the master-at-arms, who promptly assigned them to the dreaded brig till such time as their trials at the mast should be ordered.
“And now for some food,” exclaimed Herc; “I’m half famished.”