Sam Daniels and his comrades were once more back aboard the Narcissus, attending to the horses; and Cappy Ricks, his heart so filled with pride that it was like to burst, occupied the submarine's turret with the doughty Michael J. For an hour they discussed the marvelous coup until there was no angle of it left undiscussed; whereupon fell a silence, with Michael J.'s eyes fixed on the dark bulk ahead that marked the Narcissus, and Cappy's thoughts on what Matt Peasley and Mr. Skinner would say when they heard the glorious news.
For nearly an hour not a word passed between the pair.
Presently Cappy's regular breathing drew Murphy's attention to him. He had fallen asleep in his seat, his chin bent on his old breast, a little half-smile on his lips. And as Murphy looked at him pridefully Cappy spoke in his sleep:
“Holy sailor! How Mike Murphy can swear!”
Terence P. Reardon came to the foot of the little spiral staircase leading to the turret.
“Michael, me lad,” he announced, “the internal-combustion ile ingin' is the marine ingin' av the future. They're as simple as two an' two is four. Listen, avic! Does she not run like a twenty-four-jewel watch? An' this man that invinted thim was a Ger-r-man—more power to him! Faith, I'm thinkin' if the Ger-r-mans were as great in war as they are in peace 'twould need more nor the Irish to take the measure av thim!”
“Irish?” Mike Murphy answered irritably. “Terence, quit your bragging! God knows the Irish are great—”
“The greatest in the wide, wide wur-rld!” Terence declared, with all the egotism of his race.
“Whist, Terry! There's a little old Yankee man aboard; if you wake him up he'll call you a liar.”
“The darlin' ould fox!” Terry murmured affectionately, and went back to his engines.