Cappy rubbed the sore spot, and when he withdrew his fingers they were bloody.
“By the Holy Pink-Toed Prophet!” he gasped wonderingly. “You're right, Mike. I've been wounded in action with the enemies of my country! So help me, Mike. I've actually lived to shed my blood for the Stars and Stripes, like any other Ricks.”
He gazed wonderingly at Mike Murphy. “Now I can die happy,” he murmured. “I've done my bit.”
“Yes, begorra,” rumbled Terence P. Reardon, “an' if I have my way about it ye're honorably discharged from the service this minute, Misther Ricks. I'll gallivant no more wit' you in ye're ould breadbaskets av shteamers. 'Tis highly dangerous an' no business for a man of family.”
Mike Murphy grinned at his colleague. “For all that, Terence,” he declared, “you must admit that Mr. Ricks' scheme for destroying submarines is the only practical one yet devised.”
“Thrue for ye, Michael. But shtill, like all fine invintions, the idjea has its dhrawbacks. Now if we could only be sure av a continyous supply av ould ships for use as decoys—”
“I see a smudge of smoke,” cried Gappy Ricks.
Mike Murphy followed the old man's pointing finger. “There's only one kind of boat makes a smudge like that,” he declared; “and it's a destroyer. Safe and well out of a glorious adventure. Faith, we're the lucky devils; and by this and by that, I'll enlist aboard that destroyer, now that I'm here on the job.”
“Do—an' good luck to you!” murmured Terence.
“Amen,” said Cappy Ricks, and fingered his trifling but honorable wound. “Gosh!” he murmured. “If Skinner could only know a thrill like this!”