"We're with you."
And Captain Bill laughed to himself.
The breakfast-hour was drawing to its end, and the very last straggler
sat alone at the ward-room table. Presently an officer of the
mother-ship, passing through, called to the lingering group of
submarine officers.
[Sidenote: The first of the flotilla to return.]
"The _X-4_ is coming up the bay, and the _X-12_ has been reported from
signal station."
The news was received with a little hum of friendly interest. "Wonder
what Ned will have to say for himself this time." "Must have struck
pretty good weather." "Bet you John has been looking for another chance
at that Hun of his."
[Sidenote: The appearance of the crew.]
The talk drifted away into other channels. A little time passed. Then
suddenly a door opened, and, one after the other, entered the three
officers of the first home-coming submarine. They were clad in various
ancient uniforms which might have been worn by an apprentice lad in a
garage: old gray flannel shirts, and stout grease-stained shoes; several
days had passed since their faces had felt a razor, and all were a
little pale from their cruise. But the liveliest of keen eyes burned in
each resolute young face, eyes smiling and glad.
A friendly hullabaloo broke forth. Chairs scraped, one fell with a
crash.
"Hello, boys!"
"Hi, Ned!"
"For the love of Pete, Joe, shave off those whiskers of yours; they make
you look like Trotzky."
"See any Germans?"
"What's the news?"
"What's doing?"
"Hi, Manuelo"--this to a Filipino mess-boy who stood looking on with
impassive curiosity--"serve three more breakfasts.
Pages:
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165