CHAPTER VI
ON THE THAMES
Those on the Wanderer were all so glad to see him back, and showed it so positively, that he felt almost disloyal in wanting to leave the boat. Ensign Stowell, although he only returned Nelson’s salute when the latter stepped aboard, later shook hands with him and enquired about the arm and was “so awfully decent,” as Nelson called it to himself, that he found himself wishing that Fate would somehow fix it so that when his transfer came, if it did come, he would find himself still under the Ensign.
A week passed, and then another, and he began to think that, after all, he was destined to knock about Cape Cod in the Wanderer for the rest of the war. He had not mentioned the encounter with the Navy official to anyone, not even to Billy Masters, who would have heard it if anyone had. And as the days went by and it became more and more evident that nothing was to come of that meeting on the train, he was glad he had kept it to himself. He wondered whether the official had lost the card with the name scrawled on the back or whether he had just decided not to bother about the affair.
Meanwhile life on the Wanderer was by no means lacking in interest. They had been allowed, at last, sufficient ammunition for gun practice and this was held several times a week. Nelson was assigned to the after gun crew, under Lanky Staples, and in the course of the next few weeks obtained quite a little instruction and experience. Lanky had a fine contempt for the toy, as he called the three-pounder, but managed to make some creditable hits with it. Nelson bought a book on ordnance and ammunition and studied it in his leisure time, determined that sooner or later he would qualify as gunner’s mate. He got practice in sighting and loading and showed enough promise to cause Cochran to take him under his wing and teach him a good deal of practical gunnery, which was the only kind the gunner’s mate knew.
The Wanderer flitted up and down the coast in fair weather and foul, although there was not much of the latter that Spring, and had her moments of interest. There was a submarine scare early in June and one breezy morning the patrol boat went dashing off to the south, quite hopefully, in obedience to orders. But the rumored sub didn’t materialize and they ran into a heavy sea and broke a propeller shaft and had to wallow into New London for repairs. It was a three-day job to install a new shaft and Nelson and Billy Masters went sight-seeing on various occasions and found quite a lot to interest them. Some four hundred reserves from the Newport station had recently been dumped down on a New London pier and were using it as barracks, and they discovered several acquaintances amongst them and had a rather good time. They attended a dance at the hotel one evening—although Nelson didn’t dance, went over a mine layer, shopped along State street and visited the submarine base up at the old Navy Yard.
The latter excursion happened in an odd way. Nelson and Billy were admiring some perfectly gorgeous strawberry-pink and nile-green shirts in a haberdasher’s window one afternoon when they heard someone say:
“I’ll buy you a dozen of those if you’ll put them on.” The speaker was a chap in sailor’s togs whose cap ribbon bore the legend “U. S. Submarine Base.” He was a good looking fellow, about two years Nelson’s senior, slim, sun-browned and merry, and Nelson took to him on the instant. But it was Billy who answered; Billy always had an answer ready.
“Sure, I’ll put ’em on,” he said. “I’ll take the pink ones.”
“Right-o! Me for you, son! Come on in and pick them out.”