"Take my grip, my man," called Glennie to Gaines, standing up and tossing the suit case.
Gaines grabbed the piece of luggage. "Why didn't you whistle, Mr. Glennie?" he asked, dropping the suit case down the open hatch of the conning tower and listening to the smash as it landed at the foot of the iron ladder. "We're well trained and can walk lame, play dead, an' lay down an' roll over at a mere nod."
The ensign ignored Gaines' remarks. Climbing to the rounded deck he faced Motor Matt with considerable dignity.
In spite of the ensign's arrogance there was about him a certain bearing learned only at Annapolis and on the quarterdeck of American warships—a bearing that predisposed the king of the motor boys in his favor.
"We had a fight with a cachalot, Mr. Glennie," said Matt, unbending a little, "and thought best to put in here and look the Grampus over to see if——"
"You were guilty of gross carelessness," interrupted Glennie, "by risking the submarine in such a contest. But possibly you are ignorant of the fact that a bull cachalot has been known to attack and sink a full-rigged ship?"
"Ach, vat a high-toned feller id iss!" grunted Carl disgustedly. "He vill make it aboudt as bleasant on der poat as a case oof measles."
Matt frowned at Carl.
"It was either sink the cachalot or run the risk of being stove in," said Matt. "We'll have to have a little talk, Mr. Glennie, so you had better go below to the periscope room."
The ensign nodded, climbed over the top of the tower, and disappeared.