Word had been carried to the "Greytown's" bridge, and the big craft was slowing up as rapidly as her headway permitted, while an officer and several men rushed to lower and man a boat. Yet the boat, when it struck the water, was something more than a quarter of a mile away from the spot where the young woman and her brother had fallen overboard.
"Why don't some of the champion swimmers of the class go overboard to
Mr. Benson's assistance?" rang Ensign Trahern's voice, sternly.
Apparently that was all the middies were waiting for.
Instantly uniform caps littered the platform deck. Uniform blouses followed. A group of white-shirted middies raced for the rail.
Splash! splash! splash! The water shot up in tiny columns of spray with so many young midshipmen diving overboard.
Even Ensign Trahern was startled by the promptness with which his question had been met.
"No more men go overboard!" bellowed Mr. Trahern.
Splash! splash! The order had come too late to stop these last divers. A solitary midshipman, hatless and with his blouse half off, stood beside the ensign, both of them knee-deep in discarded parts of uniform, while Eph peered out from the conning tower.
"That was kind of a mean trick, sir, to play on me! I'm the only one that didn't get-over," grinned the last midshipman, sheepishly.
It was a gross violation of discipline, so to address an officer. But
Ensign Trahern merely smiled, for this once, as he replied: