“First rate. It’s mighty interesting and the fellows are corkers; officers, too—most of them. I’d like to see some service, though, before the war’s over. They say they’re likely to keep us up here six or eight months. Think the war will last that long?”
“I think it will last several years yet,” replied Nelson soberly.
“Good!” exclaimed the other, starting his engine again as the procession of vehicles moved toward the now empty boat. “No, I didn’t mean that, of course,” he corrected when they were on board. “But I certainly do want a crack at the Huns before it’s over. Want to get out and go forward?”
Nelson elected to remain where he was, but Billy murmured something and strolled off toward the bow.
“So do I,” said Nelson, taking up the conversation again. “I want to get across as soon as I can. I suppose it’s pretty hard to get into the submarine school, isn’t it?”
“Yes, rather. I was in the Naval Militia, but I dropped out and enlisted in the Navy and applied for the submarine branch. Somehow, I got it. Most of the fellows are service men, though.”
Billy moseyed back and perched himself on the floorboards again and the blue car rattled across the gang-plank, charged up-hill in the wake of its fellows, turned abruptly to the left and dashed off in a cloud of dust. There wasn’t much conversation on the way up to the base, for the driver had his hands full keeping the lurching car to the road and his guests were very busy holding themselves in. But they did exchange names. And soon after that Martin Townsend—for that, it developed, was the car owner’s name—turned the automobile into a field and jumped out.
“How do you like my garage?” he inquired laughingly.
“You don’t mean it lives out here?” exclaimed Nelson. The other nodded.