The Dreadnought Boys Aboard a Destroyer

“Pardon me--but surely I am not mistaken,--you two young men are brave sailors on board the Beale?”

“Hum; don’t know about the ‘brave sailor’ part of it,” smiled Ned Strong pleasantly, as the dark-skinned speaker halted him and his companion Herc Taylor in the shadow of the gray wall of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. “We are on board the Beale, though, or will be shortly.”

The man who had addressed the two stalwart, sunburned young fellows wearing the natty uniform of Uncle Sam’s sea-fighters flourished his silver-headed cane as if in token of having attained an object.

“The _Beale_--the torpedo-boat destroyer?” he asked, as if he were anxious to make quite sure of his ground.

“Yes, sir,” said Ned, briskly taking up his suit-case, as if about to start off again. He had set down the piece of baggage when the stranger first addressed them.

“One moment,” demanded the fashionably dressed first speaker, who spoke with a trace of foreign accent, “since you are on board that craft, you must come with me.”

Ned looked astonished at the other’s brusque manner of address. As for Herc Taylor, the red-headed, his freckles shone pinkly under his tan.

“I guess you’re a foreigner, sir, aren’t you?” he asked gently.

“Why, yes, senor,” the other twisted his little waxed mustache nervously, “but I----”

“I guessed it,” went on Herc serenely, “because in the United States we have a foolish habit of saying ‘please’ if we wish anything done.”

“Well, ‘please,’ then, senor. Come, I wish to talk with you, please. I know a place, not equal to the Hotel Espanola, perhaps, but where we can get a good drink----”

“Count us out then,” snapped Ned sharply, “we don’t drink.”

The stranger placed his thumb and forefinger together, elevated them to a level with his chin and, after gazing at them for a second, gave a light:

“Pouf!”

“He’ll blow away if he does that again,” muttered Herc. But apparently the man of the waxed mustache had been only taking this way of dismissing any possible offense he might have caused. He bowed low.

“Ah, well, I have made a mistake, I see. Of course not. Zee brave sailors of the Uncle Sam do not drink, nevaire. Perhaps, then, you will do me the honor of accompanying me to that drug store at the corner. I see they sell ice-cream sodas there. Will you try one of those?”

This was touching Herc Taylor in a weak spot. He gazed at his companion inquiringly. But Ned Strong’s eyes were riveted on the small wicket gate which opened in the long, gray-painted wall, a few feet from where they were standing. The wall inclosed the humming hive of activity known as the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Inside the gate stood a marine, sharply scanning all arrivals. It was his duty to protect the gateway to one of Uncle Sam’s ship hospitals, where everything from a rib to a rivet can be adjusted or replaced, even on the largest Dreadnoughts.

“We ought to report at ten-thirty. It’s ten now,” he said, gazing at a handsome gold watch he had just drawn out of his breast pocket. Inside the case it bore an inscription, “Presented to Ned Strong from Henry Varian, in slight token of the inestimable services rendered by him at Guantanamo, Cuba.”

Readers of the “Dreadnought Boys on Battle Practice” will recall the occasion which Mr. Varian, the inventor of the powerful explosive Chaosite, had thus chosen to commemorate. The watch had been presented to Ned Strong, as an ordinary seaman on board the big Dreadnought Manhattan. At the risk of his own life he had saved Mr. Varian from some rascals who had abducted him, and under the threat of blowing him up, had tried to compel the inventor to give up the formula of his explosive and the blue prints of a patent gun-breech of his devising for handling the stuff. It was Ned Strong’s ingenuity and pluck, it will be recalled, which had resulted in the plans of these men being a complete failure, and in their all being sentenced to long prison terms.

Closely following on this adventure, for which he received the congratulations of his own commander and also of the rear-admiral of the fleet, Ned Strong and Herc Taylor had behaved with singular gallantry just after the eruption in the forward turret of a dreaded “flareback.” At great risk they closed the safety doors, which had jammed, and then carried several unconscious men, including Lieutenant Timmons, the officer in charge, from the inferno of smoke and deadly gas. For this, readers of that volume will recall, both had been awarded medals of honor. Thus, in a few short months following their enlistment from the remote New York State village of Lamb’s Corners, both had become national heroes--that is, during the brief period of public memory. Had the recollection of their gallant deed not died out in the public mind, it is doubtful if the man who had accosted them would have chosen just these two youths who had so fully deeded their lives to their country and their flag.

“All right, we will go with you,” said Ned briskly, as if he had suddenly come to some private conclusion.

“Ah, zat is good,” smiled the dark-skinned individual. “I am glad you have come to zat determination.”

He started briskly off, headed for the drug store and followed by the two young man-of-war’s men.

As the boys were a short distance behind him, they had an opportunity to exchange a word or two as they went.

“Say, Ned,” began Herc, in a tone of remonstrance, “what’s the matter with you?”

“You don’t like the looks of that fellow?”

“No more than I like the looks of a skunk with its tail swung toward me.”

“Hush, he may hear you. I’ve got a good reason for going with him.”

“All right, then. What you say goes.”

This brief exchange of words brought them to the drug store, the interior of which looked cool and inviting, in contrast with the glaring sidewalk, for it was a hot day in early June.

Presently the trio were seated at a small table in the rear of the store, which was empty for the moment of customers.

“Ah, that sounds good,” exclaimed Herc approvingly, as the long, cool fizz-z-z-z of the fountain announced that their refreshments were being drawn.

The stranger bent forward as the red-headed lad spoke, and in a cautious voice said:

“But I have something to talk to you about which will sound bettaire.”

“So?” said Ned carelessly, as the soda glasses were placed in front of them, and Herc at once buried his nose in pink, creamy foam, “What is it?”

“Hush! Do not speak so loud. I don’t want it that any one should hear us.”

“Oh, then, it’s sort of secret business?”

“Zat is eet. You are a young man of penetration.”

“You’d say so if you saw him wading into any one he doesn’t like,” grinned Herc, setting down his empty glass and investigating its depths with a spoon.

The clerk was instantly at his elbow. The stranger looked up angrily at the store attendant.