“That’s this ship,” interrupted the steward’s boy. “They don’t say much about those things. It’s hard to find out anything. Nobody except these navy guys know about how many ships are taken over for transports. But I saw a couple of spoons in the dining saloon with that name on them. And sometimes you can make it out under the fresh paint on the life preservers and things. Uncle Sam’s some foxy old guy.”
Tom was so surprised that he stood stark still and stared as the boy hurried along about his duties. Upon the Montauk’s nearest neighbor the naval signalman was semaphoring, and he watched abstractedly. It was something about camouflage maneuvering in the zone. Tom took a certain pride in being able to read it. Far off, beyond the other great ships, a sprightly little destroyer cut a zigzag course, as if practicing. The sky was clear and blue. As Tom watched, a young fellow in a sailor’s suit hurried by, working his way among the throng of soldiers. Presently, Frenchy strolled past talking volubly to another soldier, and waving his cigarette gracefully in accompaniment. A naval quartermaster leaned against the rail, chatting with a red-faced man with spectacles—the chief engineer, Tom thought.
Who were Secret Service men and who were not? thought Tom. Who was a spy and who was not? Perhaps some one who brushed past him carried in his pockets (or more likely in the soles of his shoes) the designs of the Liberty Motor. Perhaps some one had the same thought about him. What a dreadful thing to be suspected of! A spy!
That puzzling phrase came into his mind again: Sure, I could tend to the other matter too—it’s the same idea as a periscope. What did that mean? So the Montauk was the Christopher Colon....
He was roused out of his abstraction by the fervid, jerky voice of Frenchy, talking about Alsace. Alsace was a part of Germany, whatever Frenchy might say.... Again Tom bethought him of Mr. Conne’s very wise advice, and he went to the main saloon and posted the weather prediction.
That same day something happened which shocked him and gave him an unpleasant feeling of loneliness. Mr. Wessel, the steward, died suddenly of heart failure. He was Tom’s immediate superior and in a way his friend. He, and he alone, had received Tom’s recommendation from Mr. Conne, and knew something of him. He had given Tom that enviable place as captain’s boy, and throughout these few days had treated him with a kind of pleasant familiarity.
He stood by as the army chaplain read the simple burial service, while four soldiers held the rough, weighted casket upon the rail; and he saw it go down with a splash and disappear in the mysterious, fathomless ocean. It affected him more than the loss of a life by torpedoing or drowning could have done and left him solemn and thoughtful and with a deep sense of loss.
Just before dark they semaphored over from the Dorrilton that they could spare the second steward for duty on the Montauk. Tom mentioned this to one of the deck stewards, and to his surprise and consternation, an officer came to him a little later and asked him how he knew it.
“I can read semaphoring,” said Tom. “I used to be in the Boy Scouts.”
The officer looked at him sharply and said, “Well, you’d better learn to keep your mouth shut. This is no place for amateurs and Boy Scouts to practice their games.”