"Z-3," answered one of the dungaree-clad figures on the submarine's deck.
No resentment of the adventure.
Captain Bill came up himself, as the destroyer drew alongside, to see his would-be assassin. There was no resentment in his heart. The adventure was only part of the day's work. The destroyer neared; her bow overlooked them. The two captains looked at each other. The dialogue was laconic.
"Hello, Bill," said the destroyer captain. "All right?"
"Sure," answered Captain Bill, to one who had been his friend and classmate.
"Ta-ta, then," said he of the destroyer; and the lean vessel swept away in the twilight.
The cook's opinion of the destroyers.
Captain Bill decided to stay on the surface for a while. Then he went below to look over things. The cook, standing over some unlovely slop which marked the end of a half a dozen eggs broken by the concussion, was giving his opinion on destroyers. The cook was a child of Brooklyn, and could talk. The opinion was not a nice opinion.
"Give it to 'em, cooko," said one of the crew, patting the orator affectionately on the shoulder. "We're with you."
And Captain Bill laughed to himself.