“I told them there was plenty of water,” said Bill, and they waited where they were until the destroyer laid alongside and made fast. A young man whose smart white uniform bore the black and gold shoulder stripes of a lieutenant-commander ran lightly across the gangway. He was followed by a chief petty officer and a file of men carrying rifles. Bill and Osceola stepped forward to meet them.
“Who’s in command here?” inquired the officer.
“I am, sir.” Bill stood stiffly at attention. He did not salute. It is not Naval etiquette to do so unless one is in uniform, wearing one’s cap.
“Mr. Bolton, I take it,” smiled the officer. “My name is Bellinger. If it’s okay with you, Mr. Bolton, I’ll take over now?”
“Please do.” They shook hands.
Bill then introduced Osceola and gave Commander Bellinger a brief report of his experiences during the past ten days.
“We’ve buried the dead gunsters,” he ended, “and the live ones are safely housed in their own jail.”
“My word!” exclaimed the Commander. “You chaps have certainly put in an interesting summer vacation—if not a very pleasant one! You’ve seen more scrapping in a few days than I have since the Armistice!”
“The Seminoles were a bit difficult to control, sir,” Bill went on rather hesitantly.
Commander Bellinger nodded. “I’ll bet they were. Probably scalped a few of the gunmen, eh? Well, what I don’t know won’t go into my report. The fortunes of war, you know. But I want you to understand now, Bolton, that the report won’t do you any harm with the Superintendent of the Naval Academy—quite the reverse, in fact. Both you and Chief Osceola have done well—very well indeed. And,” he added, “I think we’d better look over this gangster outfit. You’ll want to start your hop soon, I suppose.”