“It is smoke,” he announced presently. “Gee whiz, Jack, whatever is making it is coming toward us, too. What if they should be Uncle Sam’s ships steaming eastward!”
“In that case,” said a quiet voice behind them, “I think we should be justified in heading toward them and giving them a chance to look us over.”
“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” laughed Jack, for the newcomer was Mr. Chadwick, who had seen the boys going on deck with the binoculars and had arrived in time to overhear Tom’s last words.
“There are several columns of smoke,” cried Tom, after another long look.
“That appears to make it conclusive that it is the fleet,” said Mr. Chadwick. “I know they were to sail for the Mediterranean station about this time. Boys, we ought to have a fine marine spectacle. I’ll go below and consult Mr. Dancer.”
While he was below, the boys kept the glasses busy, focusing them on what were now, beyond a doubt, as many as a dozen columns of black smoke. Before long they could make out dark hulls and odd-looking masts rising above the horizon.
“Go below and tell them the news,” cried Jack, “and, oh, Tom, bring up the flag.”
He referred to the ensign which could be fitted into a socket astern when it was desirable to fly “Old Glory.”
Tom soon reappeared with Mr. Chadwick and old Silas. Mr. Dancer would not leave the wheel of his craft even to see a naval parade under such unique conditions. Of course the periscope afforded him a limited view of the inspiring sight.
Before long the monster war dogs were plainly visible and the glasses were no longer needful. There were eight of the ships—huge, formidable craft, painted the dull gray that is Uncle Sam’s fighting color. At the bow of each, as they came on, a creamy wave of foam curled up, and at the rails of the bridge of the foremost craft a group of officers could be seen pointing at the strange object their glasses had just “picked up,” and which “strange object” was, of course, the submarine White Shark.