From the forecastle head Michael Murphy yelled to Cappy Ricks. “Well, are you satisfied, sir?” On his part, Cappy, jubilant, even in the instant when he knew thirty new faces were already whining round the devil, dashed out on the bridge, seized the whistle cord and swung on it. A sad, nautical sob from the Costa Rica's siren answered him, and ten seconds later Terence Reardon whistled up the bridge. Cappy let go the whistle cord and took up the speaking tube. “Hello,” he piped.
“What the divil do ye mean be blowin' that whistle?” roared Terence, thinking he was addressing the mate. “Wit' me alone in the engine room how d'ye expect me to keep shteam up on this ould hooker wit' you blowin' it off in the whistle! Take shame to yourself!”
“Mike sunk the submarine! Mike sunk the submarine!” Cappy shrilled over and over again. “Come up, Terence, and see the oil. See the oil, Terence, see the oil! Mike sunk the submarine, Mike sunk it. Bully for Mike! Oh, bully! Bully! Bully! Mike sunk it, but I schemed it. Come up, Terence, I'm going to faint.”
And then, with shrill yips of delirious delight he slid down the companion to the main deck, to be gathered in Michael J. Murphy's arms and hugged and passed to the gun crew, who hoisted him to their shoulders and paraded joyously and blasphemously round the deck.
“I told you he wouldn't use a torpedo if he could do the trick with shells,” Gappy shouted. “I told you he'd board us if we didn't wireless for help. Ha, ha, ha! Te-hee!” And he burst into shrill cachinnations. “I out-thought the scoundrel—goin' to get a patent on my idea—turn it over to the Government—oh, Mike! Oh, Terence! Get the steward back aboard. We must have some liquor. They used to serve grog in the old navy after a victory, didn't they? Yi-yi-yi!”
Terence P. Reardon came up and proffered his greasy paw, the while his quizzical glance swept the oily sea. “Well, sor,” he remarked philosophically, “what wit' bein' a Christian I'm a little bit sorry the Dutchman lost, but back av that again I'm a little bit glad we won. Michael, do you get those blackguards o' mine down below as quick as ye can, or we'll be all day gettin' shteam up agin in this ould brute av a ship.”
CHAPTER LXI
Two days passed uneventfully; then shortly before sunset on the third day the look-out reported a periscope about a thousand yards distant and three points off the port bow. Cappy Ricks' old knees promptly commenced to knock together with excitement.