The battleships were steaming “in column,” that is, in single file. Each preserved its correct distance from the other, varying hardly an inch as they progressed.
Right up alongside the leader of the column ran the little White Shark. From the vast, lofty decks of the battleship she must have looked like some marine monster with—by some Jonah-like miracle—a crew of men and boys on her curved back.
The jackies lined the rails in crowds as the big vessel drew up closer. Every one on board appeared to be aware of the presence of the submarine. Bright colored flags appeared in strings signaling from ship to ship the news.
Mr. Dancer ran the White Shark into what appeared to be quite dangerous proximity to the big craft. But fast as the battleships were steaming, the White Shark kept pace with them. From the bridge inquiries were showered as to the nature of the submarine and whither she was bound. To these, evasive answers were returned, as it was not deemed advisable for the destination of the submarine to be known.
All at once, as the tiny metal chip of a White Shark rushed along by the side of the huge leviathan of naval warfare, an object clothed in white fell from the stern deck. Like a flash it darted downward.
For an instant the watchers on the deck of the submarine thought something had been thrown overboard from the cook’s or quartermaster’s section of the ship.
But a moment later a booming, roaring cry ran along the battleship’s crowded decks. Her steam siren shrieked like the wail of a lost soul.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Jack.
“It’s a man overboard!” cried Silas. “That’s what it is!”