"You will," said Thornton dryly. "How do you expect to get the job anyway?"
Armitage shrugged his shoulders.
"Leave that to me," he said. "Oh, Joe, are you going to be on the island for supper?"
"No—not for supper," he said. "I 'll be over from Newport about eleven o'clock though."
"All right, drop aboard then, will you? I want to see you."
"Right-o," said Thornton.
For some time after his departure Armitage sat writing a document, covering the case to date, outlining his plans, his suspicions and the like. It turned out to be lengthy. He sealed it in an envelope, labelled it, "Armitage vs. Koltsoff," and locked it in a small safe in the yeoman's room.
One of the engineer's force came in to say that they had made progress in repairing the boiler baffle plates, designed to keep the funnels from torching when under high speed, but that they were at the point where advice was needed.
Armitage arose, put on a suit of greasy overalls, and went into the grimy vitals of the destroyer, a wrench in one hand, a chisel in the other. In about ten minutes he had solved the problem, explained it to the mechanics gathered about him, and then demonstrated just how simple the remedial measures were. All torpedo boat officers do this more often than not. It explains the blind fidelity with which the crews of craft of this sort accompany their officers without a murmur under the bows of swiftly moving battleships or through crowded ocean lanes at night without lights, with life boats aboard having aggregate capacity for about half the crew.
Armitage was alone at supper, his junior taking tea aboard a German cruiser in the harbor. With the coffee he lighted a cigar and half closed his eyes. He marvelled at the strange thrill which had possessed him since Thornton had gone. The loss of that control was something which justified the gravest fears and deepest gloom. And yet—and yet—whenever he thought about it he saw, not Yeasky, nor Koltsoff, nor the torpedo—just a tall, flexible girl, with wonderful hair and eyes and lips. He puffed impatiently at his cigar. Hang it all, he had gone to church that morning because he felt he had to see her, and the morrow had been a blank because he knew he should not be able to see her again. But now, well, it looked as though he should see her; swift blood tingled in his cheeks.