“Surest thing you know. They aren’t very much interested in our autos. I notice, though, that the officers are mighty glad to borrow them when they want to get to town, or to beg a ride. Say, I’ve gone into New London with eight in that old boat! Had them clinging on to every part except the wheels! Come on down and I’ll see if I can get you through.”
They were halted by a guard, but Townsend was haughty and insistent and they were finally allowed to enter the gate. There wasn’t much that was imposing about the submarine base, but they found it interesting. Townsend took them into the barracks, introduced them to several fellows and then led the way down to the boats. There were only four submarines tied up at the stone dock that afternoon and their guide explained that the others were cruising or doing submerging stunts down the river. They were shown over one of the craft and Billy, who, to use his own words, had never seen one of the contraptions close up, was visibly impressed and asked so many questions that Townsend began to look distressed and Nelson dragged his friend back to the dock. Townsend apologized for not taking them back to the ferry in his car, but he had used up his day’s liberty, and so, shaking hands cordially, the boys took leave and climbed into a decrepit “jitney” that had just unloaded three young officers at the gate. Townsend waved them a gay farewell, a straight, lithe form against the sunset glow, and was lost to sight. Nelson was sorry to leave him, for he had taken an unusual fancy to the chap, and he hoped that they would meet again.
They rattled back through a golden haze of dust, dodging other cars by a series of miracles, and reached the Wanderer barely in time to escape a reprimand. They saw Martin Townsend once more before the Wanderer weighed anchor. It was the following morning. Nelson, Billy and Lanky Staples were leaning over the rail after breakfast when there came a swishing sound from the other side of the boat and they looked across the cabin roof. The sound came from a submarine running down-river on the surface. She passed close to the Wanderer and the two officers on the conning tower saluted Lieutenant Hattuck, while the half dozen men standing or walking about the narrow deck waved across. One of them was Townsend, looking much less trim today in a soiled dungaree. He put his hands to his mouth and said something, but Nelson couldn’t get the message, and, under the sharp eyes of the officers, Townsend didn’t dare repeat it. In a moment the submarine had slipped stealthily past and, with a final wave of his hand, Townsend vanished as the superstructure hid him from view. That, thought Nelson regretfully, was probably the last time he would ever see the fellow. But Fortune plays odd pranks, and, although Nelson couldn’t know it then, he was destined to meet Martin Townsend again before long and under strange circumstances.
The Wanderer left New London that afternoon and dropped anchor in New Bedford just before supper time. Ensign Stowell went ashore and came back about nine with mail and newspapers. The arrival of mail was a matter of slight interest to Nelson, since letters seldom came his way. It always made him feel a little lonesome and neglected to watch the others tear open envelopes and hear them read bits of home news, and tonight he left the forecastle to its pleasant diversion and went up on deck. The watch was on duty at the bow, while aft Lieutenant Hattuck and his junior were pacing up and down in conversation. Nelson leaned against the wheel house and watched the lights of the town, and presently bits of the officers’ talk came to him along the deck, for the June night was calm, with scarce a breath of wind blowing, and the harbor was quiet.
“Well, I see ‘Black Jack’s’ reached the other side,” said the captain.
“Yes, the London dispatches make quite a lot of it.”
“It’s epochal, Jack. Look at it. An American general and his staff welcomed in England, cheered on the dock and along the street, if the paper speaks true, received like a conqueror——”
The voices died away. Then: “I’m glad it’s Pershing,” the ensign was saying as the couple neared the listener again. “They’ll like him, the English. He’s quiet, unassuming, business-like, just the man for the job.”
“Hope they give him a free hand over there. He will be too far from home to succeed if they nag him. What I’d like to know——”
So it was General Pershing who had arrived in England, thought Nelson. He tried to picture the event, thrilling a little with pride as he did so. The lieutenant was right: it was epochal. All sorts of epoch-making events were happening nowadays, and would happen. It was rumored that a big army was to follow the commander across within the month. Think of an American army in France! The Stars-and-Stripes waving over her trampled, blood-stained battle-fields! It was wonderful and glorious; and it made him feel more out of it than ever. While such great things were happening he was scrubbing decks and polishing bright-work and greasing toy guns on a converted motor boat along Cape Cod! It was unbearable!