This much was made out when the shrill notes of the boatswain’s whistle calling away the whaleboat echoed through the practice ship. Clif was disconsolate. His boat was the gig. He stood in the gangway watching the work of lowering the narrow, double-ended craft, wishing with all his heart and soul that he was one of the lucky crew.
Suddenly the coxswain poked his head above the hammock netting and called out that he was a man short.
The lieutenant who had been selected to go, glanced about the deck inquiringly. His eyes fell upon Clif, and that youth sprang forward, hopped nimbly up the main shrouds, and was descending the boatfalls before the officer could make up his mind to select him. A few moments later the whaleboat was clear of the Monongahela, and being propelled across the heaving sea by her sturdy crew.
Once, while the boat was swung around by a wave, Clif sighted the strange ship. Something moving near the bow caught his eye, and he gave a start and almost dropped his oar.
“Steady, there! What is the matter with you?” came sternly from the lieutenant.
Clif said nothing, but his hands trembled as they clasped the oar again. His brain was in a whirl. He longed to rub his eyes to see if he was still awake, or if that which he had just seen or fancied he had seen, was real or a phantom.
The cadet behind him said as he leaned forward:
“Did you sight anything? You look white and scared.”
Clif compressed his lips, and maintained an uncompromising silence. He was not certain of his own senses, and he had no desire to expose himself to ridicule.