“When I first went to sea my father said to me,
‘Jack, keep away from the Submarinery.’
Bottled up tight and sick all night,
I know now that Dad was right!”
“Aw, cut it!” begged a miserable voice from an upper bunk.
“Hello, Tim! What cheer?” cried a facetious youth below. There was no reply to the challenge.
“We’ll all be like that if we stay up here much longer,” grumbled a tall youth with an incipient mustache and a smear of grease across one cheek. “Say, where are we, anyhow, fellows? How much further is it to where we get off?”
“About fifteen hundred miles,” answered someone consolingly. “Or it was before we got blown all over the shop. Bet you we aren’t any nearer Ireland than we were this time yesterday!”
“Thought we were going to Queenstown,” said another.