The only firearms aboard the Grampus consisted of a six-shooter which had accompanied the ensign when he first assumed his duties on the submarine.
"What are you going to do with that, Glennie?" laughed Matt. "Shoot Japs?"
"Well, no, not exactly," answered Glennie, "There are a good many ways in which a weapon of this sort might come in handy, besides using it for shooting Japs. It's an American gun, Matt—a Marlin. It looked sort of homelike, so I just took it in, along with a box of cartridges."
If Matt hated one thing more than another, it was a gun. He had seen firearms used so recklessly while he was in the Southwest that he had acquired a strong prejudice against them. Notwithstanding this fact, he was a crack shot, and had more than once carried off the prize in a shooting contest.
"All right, Glennie," said he, although a trifle reluctantly, "bring it along."
"You don't like guns, Matt," observed the ensign as he lowered himself into the boat and dropped down on one of the thwarts.
"Or knives, either," added Matt, "when they are used to get the better of another fellow. A pair of fists make pretty good weapons."
"Fists are all right," laughed Glennie, "so long as the other chap uses them; but when you find an enemy standing off forty or fifty feet and looking at you over the sights of a gun—well, that's the time another gun would be mighty valuable."
By the time the small boat fell in alongside the Grampus, Dick, Carl, and the rest had the hose ready and it took only a few moments to rig the pump. Presently the gasoline was flowing down the tower hatch and into the reservoir below.
Dick, keeping one eye on the negroes while they bent over the pump handles, leaned against the conning tower and heaved a long breath.