"They won't know it's me," wailed David. "All I can do now is to report to the dock as soon as I can, but I am afraid it will do no good."
The boy's distress was so moving that Mr. Becket had to look out of the window to hide his own woe. Then he spun around and announced with a shout that brought nurses and orderlies hurrying from the near-by wards:
"I have it, my boy. Abel Becket's intellect is on the mend. Send old Thrasher a wireless, do you hear? Get the hospital folks to sign it."
With that Mr. Becket jerked a roll of bills from his waistcoat and demanded a telegraph blank with so commanding an air that an orderly rushed for the office. The sailor-man and David put their heads together and composed this message to the Roanoke, which was speeding hull down and under, far beyond Sandy Hook:
Cadet Downes hurt on shore leave. Unable report because senseless. Anxious to rejoin ship.
"No, that doesn't sound right," objected David. "He thinks I have no sense anyhow. I can just hear him saying that he isn't in the least surprised. Try it again, Mr. Becket."
"Time is up," put in the nurse. "And I ought to have cut it shorter, with your friend bellowing at you as if he were in a storm at sea."
Mr. Becket looked repentant, as he whispered to David:
"Sit tight and keep your nerve. I'll get the wireless off all shipshape. Good-by, and God bless you."