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[Illustration: “Ship ahoy! Look! She is almost on us!”

(See page 79)]


THE CRUISE OF THE TRAINING SHIP

Or

Clif Faraday’S Pluck

by

ENSIGN CLARKE FITCH, U. S. N.

Author of
“From Port to Port,” “Clif, the Naval Cadet,” “Bound
for Annapolis,” etc.


[Illustration: Logo]






Philadelphia
David McKay, Publisher
610 South Washington Square

Copyright, 1903
by Street & Smith

The Cruise of the Training Ship




CONTENTS

CHAPTER                                      PAGE
     I.--Nanny in Trouble                       7

    II.--Clif On a Scout                       15

   III.--Turning the Tables                    26

    IV.--More Hazing                           39

     V.--Nanny Sends a Message                 51

    VI.--The Fight                             60

   VII.--A Hail in the Night                   68

  VIII.--The Mysterious Ship                   80

    IX.--A Fight On the Derelict               88

     X.--Sail Drill at Sea                    100

    XI.--Talking It Over                      107

   XII.--Judson Receives a Setback            113

  XIII.--Preparing for the Entertainment      119

   XIV.--The Minstrel Show                    126

    XV.--The Night Drill                      137

   XVI.--Friends in Adversity                 148

  XVII.--A Welcome Find                       163

 XVIII.--Judson Greene’s Treachery            175

   XIX.--The Mystery Solved                   190

    XX.--Diving for Rewards                   205

   XXI.--The Conspiracy                       218

  XXII.--And Then Silence!                    226

 XXIII.--“Cutter Ahoy!”                       233

  XXIV.--The Englishman With a “Haw!”         242

   XXV.--Saving a King                        248

  XXVI.--Audience With a King                 259

 XXVII.--The Broken Tree Branch               266

XXVIII.--The Midnight Marauder                273




The Cruise of the Training Ship.




CHAPTER I.

NANNY IN TROUBLE.


“Handsomely there! Not so fast. One more pull and we’ve got----”

“Ow-w! Wow-w-w!”

“Blazes! Clap your hand over his mouth. Quick! The officer of the deck
will be down in a jiffy.”

“Murder! Let go, you little imp! Let go or I’ll----”

Thud! Smack!

“You will bite my finger, eh? Take that, you miserable plebe. I say,
Crane, just hold his head while I beat a reveille on his mug.”

“Wait a bit until we get him served and spliced, Dodge. He’s kicking
like a steering wheel in a nor’east gale. There, that’s it. Another
turn about his arms and we’ll have the rat dead to rights. Now, Mr.
Nanny Gote, how do you like it?”

The speaker, a tall, heavily-built youth in a naval cadet uniform,
grinned complacently into the upturned face of a youngster lying
stretched out upon the orlop deck of the Naval Academy practice ship
_Monongahela_.

The victim, for such his uncomfortable position and bound arms
proclaimed him to be, was much younger than his chief tormentor, and
was, moreover, slight and rather delicate in appearance.

His white face indicated his alarm, and he looked up pleadingly at the
group surrounding him. He could not speak, perforce, for a wad of spun
oakum filled the cavity of his mouth, fastened there by a tarry length
of rope.

“Nanny,” as he was called by his companions, was a member of the plebe
class at the United States Naval Academy. Those tormenting him were of
the third, or hazing, class at the same institute. There were six in
the group, and they represented about the most vicious element in their
class.

Crane, the ringleader, “had it in,” to use his own words, for all
plebes, and he had started out that night to haze a few just to keep
his hand in.

The _Monongahela_ was lying at anchor twenty miles below the academy,
from which she had sailed early that morning on the usual summer
practice cruise, as already related in another volume, entitled “Clif,
the Naval Cadet.”

Early the following morning the tug from the academy would take her in
tow again to complete the trip down the broad Chesapeake to the open
sea.

It was a few moments after three bells (nine-thirty o’clock) in the
night. The three classes of cadets making up the crew were supposed,
with the exception of a small anchor watch, to be reposing peacefully
in their hammocks.

Some were, and some were not.

When the watchful officer of the deck went his rounds after taps he
found all well, and the deck echoing to the more or less melodious
snoring of the occupants.

He was an officer shrewd in his generation. He had passed through the
academy himself, and he had made more than one practice cruise in the
old ships used for that purpose. And he remembered just such a night
when, in his second year, he had started on plebe hazing expeditions
with kindred spirits.

After leaving the berth deck he paused at the head of the ladder and
listened. It seemed as if the chorus of snores below had slackened
somewhat.

The officer chuckled and then quietly slipped down the steps again. He
had no desire to catch any one in wrongdoing, but the memory of old
cadet days was too strong to resist.

The berth deck lamps were burning brightly, but the major part of the
great deck was in deep gloom.

Over in one corner where a jumble of hammocks made a haphazard patch of
dark and light shades, several pairs of legs appeared underneath the
swinging beds.

A low laugh came through the gloom, but it was speedily checked by a
warning hiss. Several hammocks stirred uneasily, then came a snap and a
thud, the latter followed by a howl of alarm.

The officer discreetly withdrew, unseen.

As he stepped out on the spar deck he chuckled again, and said:

“By Jove! the plebes will get it hot and heavy to-night. Humph! It
won’t do them a bit of harm. I was hazed and thousands before me. A
little trouble makes a man of one. Let ’em go it.”

With this philosophical speech, addressed to the moon which beamed
brightly overhead, he calmly walked aft, and the plebes, luckless and
endangered, were left to their fate.

When Crane and his associates sallied forth, they had one object in
view, and that was to make it an exceedingly torrid night for a certain
fresh “function” or plebe.

Hazing to them was a delicious and edifying sport at any time, but on
this particular occasion they had extra inducements to spur them on.

That evening, just before pipe down, the ringleader passed the word to
his cronies that he had something in the wind. Six choice spirits met
in the starboard gangway and went into executive session.

“I guess you fellows know what we ought to do to-night,” began Crane,
without further preliminary.

“Devil plebes?” spoke up a cadet from Georgia.

“Correct. It is not only our pleasure, but our bounden duty,” said
Crane, pompously. “It’s a duty we owe our country--er--I mean our
shipmates and ourselves. You all know the present state of affairs
and how the very foundation of the old academy is tottering to its
fall. How every tradition has been shattered, every shred of cadet
etiquette--er----”

“Shredded,” suggested a thin middy, with a deep voice.

“Don’t be funny, Maxwell,” growled Crane. “This is a serious business.”

“Then come down to business. Why don’t you say that it’s about time to
haze the stuffing out of that gang in the new fourth and be done with
it. What’s the use of getting off a lot of confounded rot and----”

Crane reached out and caught the speaker by the neck. He gave him a tug
and a shove, but before the two could come to blows they were separated.

“If you fools want to scrap, why don’t you go up in the fo’c’sle and
have it out?” demanded one of the remaining four, in disgust. “Crane,
take a tumble, and let’s arrange this evening’s sport. I, for one, say
we ought to get up a scheme to teach that gang a lesson. There are only
six of ’em, counting the Jap, and we ought to be able to handle them.”

“That’s right. And the first we must tackle is the freshest of the lot.”

“Clif Faraday?”

“Yes. Confound him, I wish Kelley had kept him ashore. He’s got more
nerve and downright gall than all the rest of the gally functions
together. Come, Crane, what can you offer?”

“I’ve got a scheme, but I’ll tell it in my own way or not at all,”
replied the big cadet, sulkily.

“Go ahead, then.”

“It’s this in a nutshell: We’ll yank Faraday and the rest down into the
orlop deck and give ’em a coat of varnish. There’s a whole pot down
there, and paint, too. Then we’ll rig ’em out in spun yarn whiskers and
set ’em adrift on the spar deck with some tin mess pans tied to their
tails, that is, their ankles. It’ll be great sport.”

“Yes, and a tough job, too,” remarked the Georgian cadet.

“I’d like to know why?” exclaimed a sallow-faced youth. “He’s not so
warm, this Faraday. He can be whipped.”

“Yes, but I’ve got five dollars which says you can’t do it, Morgan.
Kelley could lay over you, and Faraday licked him.”

“Let’s quit talking,” growled Crane. “Pipe down will sound in a moment.
Are you fellows satisfied with the scheme or not.”

The “fellows” were, and it was agreed to start the hazing as soon as
possible after taps.

Presently the long, low notes of the last call sounded, echoing and
winding through the rigging and hull in melancholy cadence. There was a
momentary bustle, then quiet settled over the old frigate.




CHAPTER II.

CLIF ON A SCOUT.


“Clif! I say, Clif! Wake up.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Wake up, will you. There’s something in the wind.”

“Oh, go away, Toggles. Can’t you let a fellow sleep?”

“All right, if you want to see a chum hazed by----”

“Hazed! Gorry! Who is it? Where--what----”

Clif Faraday swung lightly from his hammock, and confronted a tall,
slim youth clad picturesquely in a long nightshirt.

Clif himself was similarly attired, and the single garment revealed to
advantage his erect, muscular figure. He was not over large for his
seventeen years of age, but there was grace and strength in every line
of his compact body.

“What is it, Toggles?” he queried, hastily. “Did you say some one was
getting hazed?”

“Yes. It’s Nanny.”

“Nanny? Gorry! Have they tackled that little chap? Who’s got him?”

“It’s Crane and his gang.”

Clif’s handsome teeth came together with a snap, and a queer, grim
smile crossed his lips.

“Crane, eh?” he said. “He’s broke out again. And he has tackled Nanny
as a starter. What do you know, Toggles?”

T. Oggles Andrews, or “Toggles,” as he was familiarly called by his
plebe associates, made haste to reply.

Throwing one long, skinny leg over a convenient mess chest, he
explained:

“White, that young landsman who has taken such a shine to you, told me
a few minutes ago that he saw Crane and five others drag Nanny down
the orlop deck ladder. They had the kid choked so he couldn’t resist
or make a noise. I met White on deck and he put me onto the racket. He
said he overheard them say they were going to raise merry hurrah with
certain gally plebes.”

Clif laughed ominously.

“I suppose they meant us,” he replied. “Well, we won’t wait until they
look us up.”

While speaking he had taken his trousers from beneath the hammock
mattress and was donning them.

“Call Trolley and the rest,” he added. “We will make a night of it
ourselves. Methinks the old _Monongahela_ will see some queer doings
before the sun rises again.”

Toggles gave a chuckle and slipped under the hammocks to the other side
of the deck. While he was away summoning reinforcements, Clif made a
hurried scout in the direction of the orlop deck hatchway, an opening
in the forward part of the berth deck.

The orlop on board a man-of-war of the _Monongahela_ type is, it may be
well to know, a place in the bow below the level of the berth deck. It
is subdivided into small storerooms and has a narrow hallway into which
the rooms open.

As it is down in the extreme lower part of the ship, away from the
sleeping crew, it is an ideal place for certain ingenious ceremonies
known in colleges as hazing.

When Clif reached the edge of the hatchway, Nanny was just in the act
of making the vociferous objections described at the beginning of this
chronicle. His subsequent quieting at Crane’s hands, and that cadet’s
remarks on the subject came plainly to Clif’s ears.

The latter, in his momentary anger, made a step down as if for the
purpose of rescuing Nanny, but he thought better of it.

“They can’t do much harm to the youngster,” he murmured, “and if I
interfere now it’ll spoil our scheme. It’s a good chance to teach those
brutes another lesson. They have had more than one from us, but it
seems they need more.”

He bent over the hatch and listened again. The berth deck was as quiet
as the tossing and mumbling and snoring of several hundred sleeping
lads could permit, and Clif heard plainly the conversation being
carried on below.

“He’s fixed now, the measly plebe,” growled a voice which Clif easily
recognized as Crane’s. “He’s number one, and the smallest of the gang.
I only wish it was Faraday.”

“You do, eh?” muttered the unseen listener, grimly. “Well, you’ll have
me pretty soon, but not in the way you think.”

“I say, Crane,” spoke up another muffled voice, “don’t you think your
scheme a little too risky? It’ll stir up the whole ship and raise Cain
generally. You know what the first luff said about hazers before we
sailed.”

“Oh, bother the first luff. He’s an old woman. He forgets what he did
in his second year. I’ve heard that he made a plebe eat tallow candles
until he nearly died. Why, my plan is mild. What does varnishing and
painting a few measly plebes amount to, anyway. If you don’t like to
take chances skip back to bed.”

“I’m not afraid, but I wouldn’t care to get fired this early in the
course. What if Faraday or some of his chums split on us?”

“No fear of that,” quickly exclaimed the Georgia cadet. “Faraday may be
fresh, but he’s not carrying tales.”

“Thanks,” murmured Clif, starting to leave the hatch. “I’m glad to see
that I have one virtue. I’ll bear that remark in mind, masters. Humph!
so they intend to make living oil paintings of us, eh? Well, we’ll see
who comes out best in the---- Gorry!”

Rumble! thud!

A slippery spot near the hatchway sent Clif reeling against a
stanchion. Before he could recover his equilibrium he fell into the
opening.

The hubbub created was enough to arouse the seven sleepers of Ephesus.
Bang! went poor Clif’s heels against the sides of the passageway, and
thud! he landed flat on his back at the bottom of the ladder.

He remained there half-stunned amid silence deep and profound for the
space of a minute. Then he felt himself grasped by the back of the neck
and yanked unceremoniously to his feet.

“Who in thunder is it?” gasped a frightened voice.

“Blamed if I know, but he’s spoiled our fun, whoever it is,” was the
angry response. “Scoot, fellows, the officer of the deck will be down
on us like a thousand of brick.”

Clif, fully recovered and in possession of his wits, heard a scrambling
near by, and the creaking of a ladder. It was too dark for him to see
anything, but he knew that the would-be hazers were stampeding from the
orlop deck.

He realized that his unfortunate mishap would cause an alarm--in fact,
there was already a bustling above--but he was in no hurry to get back
to bed or to let any of the Crane gang seek the seclusion of their
hammocks.

The rough treatment given little Nanny and the cool proposition to
varnish and paint several of the plebes had aroused a feeling of
resentment in Clif.

And he proceeded forthwith to make things warm for his enemies--the
hazing committee of the third class.

Reaching out haphazard in the darkness he grasped something soft and
yielding. It was a leg. It was Clif’s turn to give something a yank,
and he did so with a will.

“Let go! What do you mean, confound it! Let go, I say, or I’ll break
your head.”

Clif calmly gave a second yank, and his victim sprawled back upon the
deck.

“Stop that racket down there,” whispered a voice halfway up the ladder.
“Sh-h! keep quiet and we’ll be all right. I don’t think they heard it
on the quarter-deck.”

Clif released his hold of the leg. He saw it was time to retreat. As he
started to slip up the ladder he remembered Nanny.

“It’ll never do to leave him in their hands,” he murmured.

Stepping back, he felt around for the little prisoner. It was all
guesswork in the profound darkness, and he met with small success. At
last he stumbled over some object which gave a muffled groan, but
before he could investigate further he heard several cadets descending
the ladder.

“Everything all right?” whispered a voice near him.

“Yes,” came from Crane. “The officer of the deck is snoozing, I guess.
The racket woke up the berth deck, but the fellows won’t bother us. I
ran across that Jap, Trolley, near the hatch. He was prowling about as
if he was onto us. We’ll have to wait now until things quiet down.”

“Who was the duffer who fell down the ladder?” asked another of the
gang.

“Blamed if I know. Wonder if he got away?”

“Let’s search.”

Clif crouched back in the darkness, and prepared to give a good account
of himself. He knew he was no match for the six, third class cadets,
but he trusted to receive reinforcements from his chums.

Then he felt assured the enemy would not resort to anything calculated
to create confusion and alarm. Such a course would only result in their
own undoing.

“Trolley and Toggles and the rest would come down here in a jiffy if
they knew where I was,” he muttered. “As it is, I’ll have to go to
them.”

Clif felt that he could escape by making a bold dash, but he wished to
leave without revealing his identity to the hazers.

He had a scheme of his own, the very thought of which made him chuckle.

“I wonder if all these doors are locked,” he mused, slipping back away
from the searchers. They were perilously near and he had little time to
spare.

Directly opposite him was a door leading into the medical storeroom.
It was supposed to be locked, but Clif, in desperation, felt for the
padlock.

It was unsnapped.

As quick as a flash he threw open the door, crept through and closed it
behind him, all but a slight crack, which he left for the purpose of
keeping in touch with the outside.

“I guess we must have been dreaming,” he heard Masters grumble.

“I guess not,” promptly contradicted another cadet. “It was no dream
nor nightmare, either. My leg is sore yet where the fellow gripped it.
And then the racket he made----”

“Oh, shut up!” growled Crane, who was evidently angry and discomfited.
“What’s the use of wasting time talking like that. Some one fell
down here, of course. And I’ll bet a dollar it was that fresh plebe,
Faraday. He’s always prowling around. The question is, where did he go?
He couldn’t have passed me on the ladder.”

“I wonder if any of the storerooms are unlocked?” queried Masters.

Clif listened eagerly for the reply. It was reassuring.

“Rats! Of course they are locked. Don’t talk nonsense, Masters.”

It was plainly evident Crane’s temper had not been sweetened by the
experience of the past few moments.

“We won’t waste any more time looking for the beggar,” he added. “Let’s
get up to the berth deck and find another plebe. Dodge, you stay and
keep guard over Nanny. While we are gone you might amuse yourself
decorating him for the grand appearance on the quarter-deck. You will
find paint and varnish and oakum back of the ladder.”

A stifled groan from the prisoner indicated that he had heard the
instructions.

“You don’t like the prospect, eh?” grinned Crane. “Just wait, my fresh
youngster. You’ll like it still less before we get through with you.
Come, fellows, we’ll----”

Crane never finished the sentence, for a light suddenly appeared at the
top of the ladder and a stern voice called out:

“Below there, what are you doing in the orlop? Come up here and report
for investigation.”

Clif, peering through the crack in the door, saw the cadets fall over
each other in their sudden panic. He felt the door snatched from his
grasp, thrown back, a figure slipped in, then it was hastily closed
again.

“Jumping Moses! what a snap,” came to Clif’s ears in a familiar tone.
“What a snap to find this place open. That’s the officer of the watch!”

It was Crane!




CHAPTER III.

TURNING THE TABLES.


Clif could hardly repress a chuckle, although he fully realized the
gravity of their position. With his ever-present sense of humor, he saw
that he could have a “high old time” at Crane’s expense.

“I’ll give him the scare of his life,” he grinned. “He’ll think he’s
got some old sea dog of Revolutionary times for a roommate.”

As a prelude he rattled several bottles on a shelf near his elbow, and
gave a deep sigh.

Crane gasped, and a noise like chattering teeth came through the
darkness.

“Wh-wh-what’s that?” demanded the third class cadet.

Another sigh and more rattling of bottles. Then Clif jumped twice upon
a tin cannister. After that he groaned.

This last was too much for Crane. With a half-suppressed howl he broke
for the door and burst into the orlop passage, Clif, shaking with
laughter, peeped out.

As he did so he looked almost into the face of a youth clad in cadet’s
trousers, and a naval officer’s blouse and cap.

It was Toggles!

“Gorry!” cried Clif in amazement. “He’s been masquerading as the
officer of the deck, and he’s fooled the fellows nicely. Hurray!”

He stepped from the storeroom in a hurry, and just in time to see
Toggles, Trolley and Joy seize Crane. The latter tried to escape, but
he was bound and gagged in a jiffy.

Clif first assisted in the operation, then he slapped Toggles on the
back and said, gleefully:

“You are a brick, old fellow. It’s a great scheme, and it came just in
time. How did you do it?”

“Got one of the wardroom boys to loan me a coat and cap,” replied
Toggles, in his quick, jerky way. “Got a lantern. Came down here.
Scared fits out of those third class fellows. Sent them up to report on
the quarter-deck.”

“Sent them up to report on the quarter-deck?” gasped Clif, ready to
explode with laughter. “You don’t mean to say----”

“He’s a cuckoo,” chimed in a swarthy, black-haired youth, whose face
proclaimed him a Japanese. It was Motohiko Asaki, whose distinguished
name had long since been converted into the more easily pronounced
appellation, “Trolley.”

“Him’s a cuckoo, a bully boy with eyeglasses,” he reiterated, giggling
placidly. “Him got great head. Him fooled third class cadets and
ordered them to quarter-deck. Officer up there will think they dream,
and he----”

“Stow it, Trolley!” interrupted a lean, solemn-faced lad named Joy.
“Your tongue is wound up like a Waterbury watch. We are losing valuable
time.”

“I guess that’s right,” agreed Clif, finally recovering from his
amazement at Toggles’ clever trick. “We have work to do, and lots of
it. Let’s release poor Nanny first. He must be half dead by this time.”

He bent over and quickly freed the little lad, who had remained
forgotten in one corner of the passage. Straightening up, Clif
continued:

“I’ve got a little scheme, but it must be worked at once. This fellow
here,” he touched Crane with his foot, “intended to paint us a rosy
red and adorn our respective faces with oakum whiskers.”

“He did, eh,” growled Joy. “If I wasn’t a peaceable man by nature I’d
adorn his mug with lumps and bruises.”

“He! he!” giggled Trolley.

“My plan is even better than that,” resumed Clif. “What’s the matter
with giving him a dose of his own medicine?”

“Paint him red?” queried Toggles, delightedly.

“Sure thing.”

“Hurray!” cheered Nanny, but in a dutifully low voice. “That’s out of
sight. And we’ll turn him loose on the quarter-deck.”

“Yes; with whiskers.”

The prisoner, who had heard all, writhed about the deck and made an
inarticulate sound.

“He’s pleased with the prospect,” said Clif, sweetly. “If there is
anything Crane likes on this mundane sphere, it is to be painted red,
decorated with oakum whiskers, and turned loose with an appropriate
chorus of tin pans. My, oh, my! Won’t the captain be pleased to meet
him!”

“I don’t think,” muttered Joy.

“Get the paint ready, Nanny,” added Faraday, briskly. “You will find
it behind the ladder. Pick out a bright carmine, and a good scratchy
brush. Toggles, see what you can do in the shape of an artistic
whisker. Make it long and imposing as befits his exalted station. I’ll
take a peep on deck.”

The lamp was shaded so its rays would fall upon the victim’s face, and
Nanny and Toggles fell to work. Trolley and Joy held Crane prostrate
upon the floor.

Clif slipped up the ladder to the berth deck, and made a careful survey
of the situation. He found everything quiet. Proceeding to the gun
deck he listened carefully to see if anything was astir. Finding all
apparently undisturbed, he glided up the hatchway ladder leading to the
spar deck.

As Clif stepped from the top of the ladder he saw a lieutenant and five
very unhappily looking third class cadets approaching from aft.

He just had time to dodge into the shadow of the bulwarks when they
halted at the hatch. The officer was speaking in a stem voice:

“Now, go below and behave yourselves,” he said, addressing them
collectively. “If I hear any more of this nonsense I’ll put you on
report for punishment. Fancy five sensible cadets with two years of
service being silly enough to believe an order like that. I’m ashamed
of you. Some plebe has fooled you. And he did it cleverly, too. Go
below and turn in at once. Remember, I’ll be down there in a minute or
so. If you are not in your hammocks you will get demerits enough to
swamp you.”

The five dolefully filed down the ladder and disappeared in the gloom
below. Clif saw the lieutenant shake as if with suppressed laughter. It
was evident he keenly enjoyed the situation.

A moment later he turned away and went back to his post on the
quarter-deck, leaving Clif to hasten below.

He found his chums awaiting him. Trolley silently held up the lantern
so the rays would fall upon Crane’s face. Clif gave one glance, then he
fairly doubled up with mirth.

“Gorry! there’s the worse looking phiz I ever saw,” he gasped. “Ha! ha!
ha! his own mamma wouldn’t know him. He’s a picture.”

Inarticulate noises came from behind the gag in Crane’s mouth. He fumed
and struggled with impotent rage. But it only added to the joy of the
group of plebes.

Nanny and Toggles had done their work well. Crane’s face was painted
in great streaks of red, with an artistic relievo of green spots.
Suspended from his chin was a shock of yellow oakum whiskers, the ends
of which trailed impressively far down his breast.

As a last touch cunning little curls of the same material adorned his
hair. And, taking it all in all, he was a spectacle to make Neptune
weep.

“Examine his fastenings and see that they are secure,” said Clif,
between chuckles. “We must take him to the quarter-deck by way of the
gun deck and steerage. And he mustn’t kick.”

“That’s rather risky,” continued Toggles.

“It no cut ice,” grinned the Japanese youth, recklessly. “I go to
captain’s cabin to see fun like this. It out of sight plenty much.
Hurray!”

“Nanny, you collect several stewpans and three or four strings of tin
cups,” continued Clif. “And be careful you don’t wake up the deck in
getting them. Go through the mess chests forward. Come along, Mr.
Crane, hazer-in-chief of the U. S. Naval Academy. You are about to play
the most striking _rôle_ of your eventful life.”

“And may the stewpans have mercy on your head,” added Joy, grimly.

Crane, still making desperate efforts to escape, was trussed anew with
a length of rope, then the four plebes lifted him up the ladders to the
gun deck.

This part of the _Monongahela_ was occupied by the regular enlisted
crew who assisted the cadets in working the ship. Nothing was to be
feared from them, as they had no desire to interfere with cadet pranks.

Cautiously and with very little noise the quartet carried the victim
aft to a door leading into the steerage, or junior officers’ quarters.
It was a large apartment, containing several berths and space for
hammocks.

In the center was the ladder leading to the quarter-deck, and it was up
this ladder the daring plebes intended to take Crane.

Nanny, armed with pans and cups, was met at the door. The tins were
fastened to various parts of Crane’s body and held tightly to avoid the
making of unwelcome noise.

“We will carry him up the ladder and place him on the top step,”
explained Clif, in a low whisper. “Then while you fellows are scooting
out of the way I’ll cut the ropes and give him a shove over the
coaming.”

“And he’ll fall flat in the midst of all those tins,” grinned Nanny.
“By Jinks! this is the greatest fun I’ve had in a year of Sundays.”

“But we won’t see the fun,” complained Toggles.

“Oh, if you want to wait and take in the show do so by all means,”
chuckled Clif. “The officer of the deck will be glad to oblige you with
a box.”

“Yes,” added Joy, “a box ’tween decks, some time called the ‘brig,’ or
ship’s prison.”

“I guess I don’t care to be a spectator,” admitted Toggles, with a
grin. “The price is too high.”

The five lads carried their burden through the door to the ladder.
The steerage was unlighted save by a single lamp behind the swinging
hammocks. Heavy breathing and an occasional snore indicated that
nothing need be anticipated from the junior officers.

“Up now,” whispered Clif. “Slowly and carefully. Steady; that’s it. Now
lower him to the step.”

While he was getting his knife in readiness, the other plebes silently
retreated and vanished into the gloom of the gun deck.

Clif placed his left hand under Crane’s body, braced himself for a
brisk shove, then he slashed away with the knife.

There was a ripping noise as the ropes parted, a sudden clatter of the
cups and pots, then, as Clif started to slip away, Crane threw both
arms about his neck and the two rolled over upon the quarter-deck at
the feet of the officer of the watch, amid a terrific din!

Clif had ever been a lad of quick resources, and of cool-headedness
in times of emergency. His mind, intelligent and apt, worked rapidly
and he was seldom at a loss for action. But in the present instant his
surprise and stupefaction was so great that he could only stare from
Crane to the officer of the watch, and back to Crane again.

This mental and physical paralysis lasted only a few seconds, however.
Then Clif, with incredible agility, leaped to his feet and sprang
toward one of the open gun ports.

As quick as a flash he vanished through the aperture, leaving Crane and
the officer staring at him in open-mouthed wonder. The latter was the
first to recover.

Leaping to the gangway, he glanced over the side, fully expecting to
see the lad struggling in the water. The moon, which had been obscured
by a passing cloud, burst forth in all its refulgence.

The clearly illuminated expanse of water revealed nothing, not even a
ripple.

The lad had completely disappeared.

Dumfounded, and imagining that he was the victim of a nightmare or
dream, the lieutenant turned inboard once more.

“What in the name of all that’s wonderful does this----”

He stopped short. The other apparition--the marvelously-bedecked and
painted figure--the other cadet, had also vanished.

The officer rubbed his eyes, and administered unto himself a severe
pinch. Then he glared suspiciously at the figure of the quartermaster
on duty on the bridge.

Approaching him, he asked, cautiously:

“I say, Johnson, did you--er--hear or see anything just now?”

Johnson was an old seaman, and he had made many a cruise on board
academy practice ships. He knew and liked the cadets and found their
pranks a source of infinite fun. He was not the man to tell tales out
of school. Concealing a grin, he answered, with a fine assumption of
surprise:

“See anything, sir? Hear anything, sir? No, indeed, sir. Was it a hail?”

“A hail? No. It seemed to me”--the lieutenant hesitated, glanced
nervously about the deck, then added: “I guess it was simply a fancy.
I’ve lost considerable sleep lately, Johnson, and probably I am a
little unstrung.”

He moved aft, and spent the rest of his watch signing imaginary pledges
not to take another drop of anything stronger than lemonade.

In the meantime a scene unusual at that hour was being enacted on the
forward part of the berth deck.

Over in one corner a cadet was cleaning his face of red paint and oakum
whiskers. He was in a rage, and shook his fist at Clif and his crowd.

“Oh, but this is funny,” cried Clif. “It’s worth a year’s pay to see
Crane do the circus act. Isn’t he a beauty in his war paint?”

“Him what you call one chromo,” giggled the Japanese youth. “I glad I
woke all the fellows to see the sport. Hurray!”

“How did you get away from that mixup on the quarter-deck, Clif?”
queried Toggles. “When I reached the main deck ladder you had
disappeared over the side. How was it?”

“Easy enough, chum. When I saw how scared the lieutenant was a bright
idea struck me. I crawled through the nearest port to the starboard
main chains and swung down against the ship’s side. I saw the officer
look over, then, when he turned away, I reached the gangway and slipped
forward. Now let us turn in and give Crane a rest.”

And they did.




CHAPTER IV.

MORE HAZING.


“That isn’t a clew line, you lubber.”

“I--I thought----”

“What’s that? Thought? How dare you think? Shade of Farragut! What’s
the service coming to? A confounded measly plebe--a worm of a
function--thinking! It’s dreadful to contemplate.”

“Please, sir, I didn’t mean----”

“You didn’t mean? Why didn’t you mean? Say, is it possible you say
things without meaning them? Then you don’t tell the truth. Ergo--you
can’t be trusted. A pretty naval officer you will make. I’ll just mark
you down for report to the commanding officer.”

And Cadet Corporal Sharpe made an elaborate flourish of his pencil as
he pretended to enter the item in his notebook.

Standing before him in evident fear and trembling was Nanny. Clif was
also present.

“Did you ever hear the beat of that, Trolley?” whispered Clif. “It’s
simply outrageous, the way Sharpe is carrying on. What does he take
us for, a lot of dummies? I think we’ll have to give him and the rest
another lesson in manners.”

“I think so very much, Clif,” replied Trolley, in the same tone. “He
what you call one dead-sure crank, eh? He bluffer from--from----”

“Bluffersville,” prompted Joy.

“Yes, him from Blufftown, eh? Him get a curve off him.”

There was a smile at this attempt of the Japanese youth to use American
slang--a smile that was observed and sternly checked by the corporal.

“What’s that,” he exclaimed, sarcastically. “Grinning during drill?
Mean it as an insult to the service, I suppose.”

“Not exactly,” mildly replied Clif.

“Who told you to speak, Mr. Faraday. How dare you make remarks. Want
to get swamped with demerits before this practice cruise of the
_Monongahela_ is over, I suppose. You haven’t nerve enough to run away,
and you are afraid to resign, so you think you will misbehave yourself
and get fired. I’m on to your little game, and, by Jupiter! I’ll help
you.”

Out came the book, and the pencil was placed in action once more. As he
closed his little book with a snap, he added:

“That means ten demerits at the very least. I see your finish, Mr.
Faraday.”

Clif coolly shrugged his shoulders and glanced across the deck toward
another group of plebes that was likewise being hazed by a cadet
officer.

It was drill hour in the morning watch on board the _Monongahela_. The
vessel was still anchored near the mouth of Chesapeake Bay. It was
considered necessary to allow the three classes on board to become
accustomed to their new surroundings before venturing to sea, and for
that reason progress was slow.

Cadet Corporal Sharpe, in charge of Clif and his chums was an expert
“plebe deviler.” He had been known to drive timid and credulous
plebes to resign in desperation. And he had driven new fourth class
men with more backbone, to open revolt, which ultimately resulted in
divers demerits for the said “mutineers.” All this to the unbounded
satisfaction and joy of the hazer and his cronies.

That morning when orders were given to teach the plebe class the
various ropes and their uses, Corporal Sharpe was assigned to the group
composed of Clif, Trolley, Toggles, Joy, Nanny Gote, Chris Spendly, and
Judson Greene.

The two last were not chums of Clif. In fact, they hated him most
cordially, and, since their entrance into the academy, had tried in
many underhand ways to “down” him.

Each attempt had resulted in their own discomfiture, and of late they
had kept rather quiet. Fate had placed them in the same squad with Clif
this day, and they were eager to see if he would get into trouble with
the cadet corporal.

From the appearance of affairs at the commencement of the lesson it
certainly seemed that their desires would be gratified. Clif viewed
with displeasure the young officer’s deviling of Nanny, as the little
lad was an especial favorite of his.

The morning lesson was to consist of instruction in the different
running ropes. At the very outset Cadet Corporal Sharpe had held up
a manilla line leading aloft amid a perfect maze of others and had
sharply demanded of Nanny its name.

The lad hazarded a guess and was immediately pounced upon as outlined
at the commencement of this chapter. After noting down Clif’s offense
in his book, the corporal proceeded with the lesson. And it was evident
from his air of complacent satisfaction that he thoroughly enjoyed the
situation.

He took Clif in hand.

“You have put on more airs than an admiral since the academy was
unfortunate enough to admit you,” he snarled, “and it’s about time you
found out that you do not run the whole show. You have raised the Old
Nick in your own estimation, and, simply because you and your gang came
out ahead in hazing once or twice you think you can do as you please.
What’s that--talking back to a superior officer, eh?”

Out came the book once more. Making an entry, the corporal restored it
to his pocket.

Clif had not spoken, but that fact made little difference. The hazer
was out for trouble.

Those standing near Clif saw two round, red spots appear upon his
cheeks, but he was still apparently cool.

Trolley and Toggles looked their disgust, but they had too wholesome a
respect for discipline to interfere.

Little Nanny--he was barely within the limits of size at the entrance
examination--seemed troubled and excited. He was not a lad of very
strong character, but he had one attribute, and that was faithful
affection.

He liked Clif exceedingly. He admired him for his manliness, and looked
upon him as ideal in every particular. His friendship for the sturdy
plebe was that of the faithful dog for his master.

Now, while the cadet corporal was doing his utmost to provoke Clif into
some breach of discipline, Nanny watched and listened with a growing
purpose in his heart.

Cadet Corporal Sharpe finally exhausted his vocabulary of invectives,
and was forced to resume the instruction. The group was gathered about
the forward pin rail to which a portion of the running rigging leads.

The young non-commissioned officer knew his business, however
overbearing and tyrannical he might be. The maze of ropes leading here
and there was not a maze to him.

Placing his hand on one he said, abruptly, still addressing Clif:

“This is the fore-to-’gallant halliards. What is it’s use, sir?”

“To hoist the fore-to-’gallant yard, sir,” was Clif’s prompt reply.

“Humph! it’s a wonder you knew that. Who told you? Where did you read
it? Humph! I guess you don’t know much more. Now, what’s this?”

He touched a thin manilla rope apparently twisted with several others.
Clif looked aloft trying to follow it with his eye.

“What are you gaping about?” snapped the corporal.

Greene and Spendly exchanged grins. Clif’s face reddened slightly, and
a peculiar smile, ominous and dangerous, crossed his lips.

“I must confess I do not recognize it,” he began. “But I think----”

“Think!” Corporal Sharpe cried. “We want no thinking here. You confess,
eh? Why don’t you confess the truth--that you are a dunce, a blamed
idiot. A----”

There was a startling interruption.

Before he could finish the sentence Nanny sprang from the group and
flung himself upon the young officer. There was a sharp clasp, a second
blow, then the corporal staggered back with his assailant clinging to
his throat.

The sudden attack was conceived and made in the twinkling of an eye.
It was a complete surprise to Cadet Corporal Sharpe and to all who
witnessed it. Clif and his friends stared in open-mouthed wonder for a
moment, then the former sprang forward to separate the two.

By that time, however, the cadet corporal, who was much stronger than
Nanny, had shaken him off. Sharpe was white with rage.

“What do--do you mean, you fool?” he gasped. “How dare you lay hands on
me? I’ll----”

He drew back his clinched fist to strike the younger lad, but his wrist
was grasped firmly, and a cool voice said:

“Don’t touch him, sir. If he is to be punished, let the proper persons
attend to it.”

“Mind your own business, Faraday,” snapped Sharpe, jerking his wrist
from Clif’s grasp. “I’ll have you soaked for interfering. As for that
crazy plebe, he’ll be fired for this.”

Just then the officer of the deck and Lieutenant Watson, the executive
officer, who had been attracted by the commotion, came hurrying forward.

Nanny, who seemed in a daze, caught sight of them. Fear for his rash
action and a vague idea of the punishment he had incurred, sent the
color from his cheeks.

He gave one appealing glance toward Clif, then he made a spring for the
port foremast shrouds.

“Hi! Stop!” called out the first lieutenant.

“Catch him, some one,” ordered the officer of the deck.

A rush was made after the lad, in which both Spendly and Judson Greene
took active part, but they were a second too late.

Nanny’s lack of experience was more than overbalanced by his fear, and
he flew up the ratlines like a reefer.

The pursuers were on the point of crowding into the rigging when a
stern command came from Lieutenant Watson.

“Stop! What is the meaning of this uproar? Who is that cadet, Corporal
Sharpe?”

“It is a new fourth class man, sir. His name is Gote, Mr. Nanny Gote,
sir.”

As “Nanny” was simply a nickname given the lad by the cadets, this
method of putting it provoked a laugh among the spectators. But
Lieutenant Watson quickly checked it.

“This is no variety show,” he exclaimed. “I want to know the meaning of
this disgraceful scene. What is that cadet doing up there?”

“He ran away, sir.”

“Why?”

“Because--because he was afraid, sir,” stammered the Cadet corporal,
growing red in the face.

“Afraid of what?”

Only small persons in this world--small in nature--bully those under
them. Corporal Sharpe was possessed of an extremely small and narrow
spirit, and he delighted in showing his petty authority and in doing
his utmost to make life unpleasant for those over whom he could
exercise his will.

His reputation as a “plebe hazer” was well established among the
cadets themselves, but it had not reached the ears of his superior
officers. He knew that, and he lost no time in taking advantage of the
fact.

“I’ll tell you all about it, sir,” he said, boldly. “I was giving this
squad of plebes--er--new fourth class men instructions in seamanship
when Mr. Gote, not liking a rebuke caused by his own inattention, made
an entirely unprovoked assault on me.”

A murmur, faint but distinct, ran through the group of plebes, and Clif
stepped forward as if with the intention of speaking. Before he could
commence, Sharpe pointed him out, and added, triumphantly: “And that
cadet helped him, sir. His name is Mr. Faraday, and he is as guilty as
the other.”

The speaker glanced toward Judson Greene and Chris Spendly as if
seeking confirmation. Their hatred of Clif was an old story to
the cadets of the Naval Academy. He was not disappointed in his
anticipations.

“That’s right,” said Greene, audibly.

“Sure thing,” spoke up Spendly.

“Do you mean to tell me they actually attacked you while you were on
duty over them?” exclaimed the executive officer, in amazement.

“Yes, sir. And it was entirely unprovoked,” glibly replied Corporal
Sharpe. “They are troublesome pupils, sir. This isn’t the first time
they have broken the rules.”

“Nor is it the first time you have told a deliberate lie, Cadet
Corporal Sharpe!”

The words came like the snap of a whip from Clif’s lips. Stepping
forward, he placed himself directly before the young non-commissioned
officer.

His face was calm, but a peculiar, mirthless smile hovered about the
corners of his mouth. It was a smile known to his intimate friends as a
certain indication of strong emotion.

“What is that, sir?” cried the executive officer. “How dare you give
the lie to a superior officer? Lieutenant Masters, place him under
arrest, and notify the captain!”




CHAPTER V.

NANNY SENDS A MESSAGE.


As the officer of the deck advanced to obey the command a cry came from
overhead. All eyes were turned in that direction.

In the excitement Nanny had been temporarily forgotten. The little lad
had ran up the rigging to the foretop, then seeing that his friend was
in trouble, he descended midway to the deck.

There he paused, and when Clif was ordered under arrest he made an
exclamation of consternation.

The executive officer was angry. He believed the corporal’s story, and
the very idea of such a gross breach of discipline was too much for his
temper.

“Come down, sir!” he roared, shaking his spyglass at poor Nanny. “Come
down at once or it will be the worse for you.”

A cadet first class man named Blakely, the captain of the academy
football team, involuntarily leaped into the rigging, thinking the
pursuit of the fugitive was desired by Lieutenant Watson.

The latter’s stern voice and Blakely’s action proved the last straw,
and Nanny fled upward again in dismay.

The rigging swayed under his hurrying feet and several times he came
dangerously near falling. But fear lent confidence, and he gained the
top without mishap.

Lieutenant Watson watched his progress with mingled amazement and rage.
In all his experience he had never known a cadet to run aloft to escape
punishment.

“The boy is crazy,” he muttered.

“Shall we send several men after him, sir?” asked the officer of the
deck.

Before a reply could be given the commander of the _Monongahela_, who
had been in his cabin, walked forward attracted by the commotion.

“What is the matter?” he asked, glancing at the cadets.

“A little trouble between Cadet Corporal Sharpe and two new fourth
class men, sir,” replied Lieutenant Watson, saluting. “Cadets Faraday
and Gote attacked Cadet Corporal Sharpe and struck him while he was in
pursuit of his duty.”

“What’s that?” exclaimed the captain, severely. “Striking a superior
officer is a grave offense.”

Turning upon Clif, he added:

“Young man, it seems that you intend to keep yourself before the
public. It was all right for you to create disturbances at the academy
and be kidnaped, but when you assault a superior officer, you go too
far. Your time as a cadet will be short if you persist in such actions.”

Clif attempted to speak, but he was cut short with a gesture.

“Where is the other culprit?” asked the captain, addressing Lieutenant
Watson.

The latter pointed aloft.

“He fled to escape punishment, sir.”

“What?”

“He’s in the foretop.”

“Have him brought down at once and placed under arrest. I’ll
court-martial both for this breach of discipline,” thundered the
_Monongahela’s_ commander.

At a signal from the executive officer, four nimble first class men
sprang into rigging and began to run aloft.

The crowd around the spot had increased until it numbered almost the
entire crew. All the officers off duty had left the wardroom and
steerage, and many comments were made.

“Never seen anything like it in all my experience,” exclaimed the
navigator.

“Think he’s temporarily insane, doctor?” the paymaster asked, gazing
curiously aloft.

“Maybe a touch of sunstroke,” was the surgeon’s cautious reply.

He stepped over to the captain said something in a low voice.

Clif, who was standing a few feet away, between the master-at-arms and
the ship’s corporal, heard the commander reply, incredulously:

“Nonsense, sir. It’s simply a spirit of deviltry. He thinks he can do
as he pleases. He must be taught a lesson.”

Clif glanced aloft, where, indeed, all eyes were turned, and saw that
the four cadets had almost reached the top.

Suddenly Nanny’s face, strained and eager, appeared over the edge of
the wide top. He gave the pursuing cadets one rapid glance, then he
scrambled into the rigging leading above and started to ascend.

“Stop! Come down out of that,” bellowed the executive officer, waving
his spyglass.

The fugitive’s feet slipped and he was seen to sway outward. A frantic
clutch at a stay saved him, however, and he continued upward.

“He will fall as sure as fate,” cried the paymaster, hoarsely.

Again Nanny slipped, and again did he regain his foothold. But it was
evident his lack of experience would bring him into serious peril, and
the spectators watched his uncertain progress with bated breath.

“He’ll never reach the crosstrees,” said Lieutenant Watson. “He is
crazy. He will---- Oh! I thought he was gone then.”

“Mr. Blakely, don’t follow any farther,” he shouted. “Come back to the
top.”

The senior cadet and his three companions halted instantly and slowly
descended. Nanny quickly observed their change of action, and halted,
swinging nervously from the ratlines.

A sigh of relief went up.

“Proper move,” muttered the surgeon. “Should have stopped them before.
Guess I’ll try a trip to the top and see if I can coax him down.”

He made the suggestion at once, and the commander gave prompt consent.
It was a ticklish task for his unaccustomed feet, but he finally
arrived within speaking distance of the young fugitive.

The two held a very brief conversation, then the surgeon returned to
the deck. His face wore a queer expression.

“That boy is no more crazy than I am,” he reported. “But he’s simply
scared out of his wits. He declares he won’t come down until a certain
cadet is sent up to him.”

“Who, in Heaven’s name?” demanded the captain.

“Mr. Clif Faraday.”

“Why does he wish to see him?”

The surgeon shook his head.

“I don’t know, sir,” he replied. “He insists on it. Possibly it would
be a good idea to humor him.”

“I’d like to humor his back with a rope’s end!” exclaimed the captain.
“This is the most ridiculous experience I ever had. Fancy a cadet
skipping aloft and defying the whole ship’s company. It is simply
outrageous. Mr. Faraday!”

“Yes, sir.”

Clif stepped forward and saluted respectfully. He appeared calm, but a
gleam in his eyes indicated that he labored under some excitement.

“Run aloft and persuade that silly boy to come down,” ordered the
captain, gruffly. “Tell him we won’t hang him to the yardarm to-day.
And just add that he is making a fool of himself and that it will have
a bad effect on his future record.”

Clif saluted again and sprang into the shrouds. As he passed Cadet
Corporal Sharpe he gave that youth a look that spoke volumes.

“He’s the cause of all this trouble,” muttered Clif, as he nimbly
ascended the rigging. “If any harm comes to poor Nanny I’ll square
accounts with him as sure as fate.”

It did not take him long to reach the foretop. Climbing through the
lubber’s hole, he stood up and looked aloft. Nanny was midway to the
crosstrees.

His face was rather pale, and the hands grasping the ratlines trembled
perceptibly. It was evident that he was still badly frightened. Clif
motioned him to come down to the top.

“Drop down here, Nanny,” he said, kindly. “Everything is all right.
Just descend carefully, and I’ll help you to the deck.”

“Oh, Clif, I’m afraid,” was the piteous reply. “I--I--struck an
officer, and they’ll send me to prison.”

“Nonsense, chum. We are both in trouble on account of that ‘plebe
deviler,’ Sharpe, but they can’t do much to us. I expect we will be
court-martialed, but we’ve plenty of witnesses on our side. Come down,
that’s a good boy.”

“You are not fooling me?”

Clif laughed encouragingly.

“That’s a nice thing to say,” he replied. “I am ashamed of you.”

Nanny smiled also, and prepared to descend. He cautiously lowered
one foot and then started to follow with the other. As he did so he
stepped, swayed outward, and after one frantic grasp at the rigging,
fell down, down from the dizzy height.

A cry of horror came from the spectators.

“He will be killed!”

“Heavens! what a fall!”

Then came a sickening splash as Nanny’s body, bounding from the
rigging, struck the water and disappeared beneath the surface.

Several cadets, among them Trolley, Joy and Toggles, sprang to the top
of the hammock netting, but before they could leap overboard after the
little plebe a figure was seen to cleave the air from above.

Amid the echoes of the second splash a shout went up in a regular
torrent of voices:

“It’s Faraday!”




CHAPTER VI.

THE FIGHT.


“Gently, men, lift him up gently. That’s it. Now, help in the other.
What a dive that was!”

“Clean as a whistle. Best I ever saw. And think of the distance. Say,
Masters, he’s a hero from Heroville.”

The lieutenant in charge of the cutter smiled and nodded his head.

“Ready! Pull away, men!” he ordered. “Take us back to the ship,
coxswain.”

The first cutter of the _Monongahela_ swept over the tumbling waters of
Chesapeake Bay under the steady impulse of four pairs of oars.

Lying insensible in the forward part was Nanny. Near him reclined
Clif, fully aware of all that was going on about him, but thoroughly
exhausted.

Trolley and Joy, members of the boat’s crew, were paying much less
attention to their oars than to their chum.

Talking among the men is generally prohibited, but in this case the
rule was entirely lost sight of, and the crew conversed freely.

“Him should be Japan,” said Trolley, genuine admiration in his voice.
“If boy do that in Japan navy they make him hero. Mikado give medal and
all people sing songs.”

“But that is in Japan,” said Clif, with a return of his old winning
smile. “Such little tricks are of common occurrence in this country. It
happens every day.”

“Indeed it doesn’t,” broke in Joy. “Person might jump overboard, but
not from the foretop. It was a lulu of a dive. And then when you
touched water you didn’t stay under the surface five seconds.”

A rousing cheer and a tiger greeted the cutter as it swept alongside
the gangway. Nanny was passed up and immediately taken to the sick bay.
But when it came Clif’s turn, he rejected all aid and climbed up the
side as nimbly as of yore.

On reaching the top of the gangway he glanced down upon a sea of
enthusiastic, youthful faces. Grouped near the bulwark were twenty
plebes. In the front rank were Toggles, Walters and others of Clif’s
friends.

“Whoop! here he is!” shouted the former. “Up with him, fellows.”

Clif made an effort to escape, but he was seized and borne in triumph,
wet as he was, about the deck.

At the procession passed the mainmast, the captain, who had been
smilingly watching the scene with the other officers, stepped forward.
Clif was immediately lowered to the deck.

“Mr. Faraday,” said the commander, “an act such as yours deserves all
praise. I will mention you in my reports, and will also keep an eye on
you in the future. As for that little trouble we will forget it. But I
may as well add that it would be better for you and Mr. Gote to obey
the rules as you find them. That will do.”

Clif bowed and went forward with the other cadets. He still felt,
however, that he was laboring under an unjust cloud.

As he reached the gun deck hatch the apothecary came up and said as he
hurried aft:

“Your friend has just recovered consciousness, Mr. Faraday. The surgeon
says he’ll be all right in a day of two.”

“Thank God for that!” was Clif’s heartfelt comment. “Poor little chap!
He has suffered enough for what he did.”

The words were overheard by Joy. The latter touched him on the shoulder
and whispered:

“There’s that ‘plebe deviler,’ Cadet Corporal Sharpe, over there
talking with Greene and Spendly. He looks disappointed.”

“He’ll look worse than that in a moment,” replied Clif, grimly.

Joy thrust out his lean, tanned face and gaped at him.

“You--you don’t mean----” he gasped.

Just then Cadet Corporal Sharpe sauntered past and descended the ladder
leading below, with a swagger. Clif followed at his heels, and Joy,
after a delirious signal to all standing near, followed him.

As the plebe from Nebraska reached the gun deck he saw Clif confront
Sharpe.

“You are too contemptible to talk to,” he heard the former say; then
Clif reached out and, catching Sharpe’s nose between his fingers, gave
it a disdainful tweak!

The effect upon the cadet corporal was much as if the deck overhead had
suddenly been lifted off and the blue canopy of heaven exposed to view.

He staggered back, glaring at Clif in stupefied amazement.

The latter’s face wore a grim look of determination; and that strange
smile, which was a signal of danger to all who knew him, hovered about
his mouth.

He was resting lightly upon his feet, poised for the attack he knew
would follow.

Sharpe attempted to speak, but the words came in a stuttering stream.
He was wild with rage.

Leaping forward, he aimed a blow, but before Clif could parry it,
Blakely, the big first class man, intervened.

“Not here, you fool,” said the latter, warningly. “This is no place
for a scrap. If you want to fight the cheeky plebe go forward to the
washroom.”

“If I want to fight?” cried Sharpe, struggling to free himself from
Blakely’s detaining hands. “He pulled my nose, and I’ll kill him.”

“Then do it in the proper place,” was the cool reply. “Go to the
washroom.”

“I’m perfectly willing to fight him there or here, or any old where,”
announced Clif. “And I’ll do my best to give him a thrashing he won’t
forget in a hurry.”

“You may receive one yourself,” said the big senior. “Get those wet
clothes off and meet us forward. Be quick about it. We get up anchor at
five bells.”

Clif was attended by Joy and Trolley, and five minutes later he entered
the washroom to find it almost packed with cadets.

A space was cleared in the center and preliminaries arranged by Joy and
a second class man. Blakely was to act as referee.

When Clif stepped out, stripped and ready for the fray, Sharpe advanced
to meet him. The hazer’s face was not pleasant to contemplate.

He was naturally a bully at heart, and his disposition was mean
and small. The two attacks upon him that morning--attacks by two
“miserable” plebes at that--had brought out all the vindictiveness of
his petty nature.

Faraday confronted him calmly, but that old smile was very pronounced.
Trolley and Joy, who knew it well, gleefully rubbed their hands.

“Time!” called Blakely. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” clearly replied Clif, standing on the defensive.

Sharpe barely nodded.

The signal came, and the two enemies--for such they were, in
truth--began to spar cautiously.

But this caution lasted not a minute. Sharpe, plainly wild with anger,
made a furious attack and succeeded in beating down Clif’s guard. The
result was a stiff tap upon Faraday’s chin which sent him reeling
against the bulkhead.

A subdued howl of delight came from the members of the upper classes.
The plebes looked glum, but Trolley and Joy, who were attending Clif,
showed no signs of discouragement.

Time was again called.

Sharpe advanced confidently, and Clif saw him wink at several friends.

The “plebe deviler” essayed the same tactics, but he did not succeed so
well as before. The round ended with a furious exchange of blows which
left several angry blotches upon Sharpe’s face.

When the two faced each other for the third time, Clif instantly made
a feint with his left and let drive with all his force with his right
directly into Sharpe’s face.

There was a crunch and a thud, a gasping cry and the cadet corporal
found himself upon the hard deck, his head dancing amid a whole galaxy
of stars.

He scrambled erect and fairly tore himself from the hands of those
about him. He was seen to tear something from his pocket and spring at
Clif.

There was a flash, a warning cry from the spectators, then Faraday shot
out both hands, landing with terrible force upon the chin and neck of
the infuriated cadet.

Sharpe fell like a log, and at the same moment something dropped from
his grasp with a metallic clatter.

“He’s knocked out, and pretty badly, too,” announced Blakely, amid a
confused murmur of voices.

“He deserved to be killed!” exclaimed Joy, picking up something from
the deck. “Look at this!”

It was a claspknife, open and ready for use.

“That lets him out,” muttered Blakely, grimly. “He’ll not suffer from
too much companionship this cruise.” Raising his voice, he added:

“We may have differences with plebes, but we are gentlemen. Any person
who associates with Sharpe hereafter is a cad.”

And Blakely’s decisions were always respected.

“Hurray!” cheered Trolley, embracing Clif. “You bully boy from backway.
You do plenty for plebes to-day. Hurray!”




CHAPTER VII.

A HAIL IN THE NIGHT.


For several days nothing of importance happened. Then came a storm and
Clif was placed on the lookout.

“Sail O! Ship dead ahead! Look out, she’s----”

The startling cry, wafted aft from the forecastle by a sudden shifting
of the gale, came to an end just as the officer on watch awakened to
the fact that something was wrong.

Grasping his trumpet more firmly, he peered through the gloom
enshrouding the ship like a damp mist, and then bawled, lustily:

“Foc’s’le, ahoy! What have you sighted?”

There was a commotion about the wet, littered decks. Crew and cadets
slipped from their shelters and glanced anxiously out into the
storm-tossed waste of waters. The executive officer, who had just
retired, hastily reappeared, armed with his nightglass, and silently
took his station on the quarter-deck.

All waited breathlessly for the answer from forward. It was tardy in
coming, and the executive officer snapped out:

“Forward, there! Why don’t you answer?”

A tall, slim figure, swathed in oilskins, swayed up to the speaker from
beyond the foremast, and saluted as well as plunging deck would permit.

“I have investigated the matter, sir. The cry was given by a new fourth
class cadet, acting as lookout on the starboard cathead. He fancied he
saw a ship directly in front, and he gave the alarm.”

“What is his name?”

“Clifford Faraday, sir.”

“Humph! was he asleep?”

“I do not think so, sir.”

“He’s a bright lad, Mr. Watson,” interposed the officer of the watch.
“I stationed him up there for that reason. He’s not the one to sleep on
duty.”

“But he must have been dreaming to act in that manner,” impatiently
replied the executive officer. “What did the other lookouts----”

“Ship ahoy! She’s dead ahead! Watch----”

The cry rang out sharply above the roaring of the gale, and, as before,
it came to a sudden ending. There was a moment of silence, then the
cadet officer of the forecastle, who had just made a report, exclaimed
wonderingly:

“It’s Faraday again!”

Brandishing his telescope like a sword, the executive officer sprang
forward, followed by the other officers and a score of men and cadets.

On reaching the forecastle they found Clif leaning far out over the
rail, hanging with one hand from a stay.

He was peering eagerly through the gloom at a point just off the
starboard bow.

“What is the matter here?” harshly exclaimed Lieutenant Watson. “Who
gave that alarm?”

Clif turned and leaped lightly to the deck. One hand came up to the rim
of his cap in prompt salute, then he replied, in a clear, strong voice:

“I gave the alarm, sir.”

“What for?”

“Because I sighted a ship dead ahead, sir. We were almost on top of her
when she disappeared.”

The executive officer made a gesture of impatience.

“This is sheer nonsense, Mr. Faraday,” he exclaimed. “You have been
dreaming.”

“Dreaming, sir?”

Clif drew himself up. His face, seen in the light cast by a hand
lantern, reddened.

“Yes, dreaming. You have been asleep, sir,” insisted Lieutenant Watson,
whose temper was not the best. “It is a grave breach of discipline, and
I warn you to keep awake on watch in the future.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” replied Clif, respectfully, but with
firmness. “I must deny having been asleep. I have walked back and forth
across decks during the whole watch. I passed the call at each bell,
and I know I saw what I have claimed.”

“Where is it, then?”

Clif glanced out across the water, which foamed and leaped in giant
billows under the force of the gale. The air was filled with flying
spume, and rain beat downward with steady persistency. It was a wild
night.

The thick mist hemmed the ship in a black horizon, and naught was
visible to the curious eyes of the group on the forecastle. Several of
the cadets laughed, and one said in a tone plainly audible:

“He saw the _Flying Dutchman_, I guess.”

The words did not escape Clif, but he gave no sign of having heard
them other than one quick glance at the speaker.

“I do not know where the ship is now, sir,” he replied, steadily, to
the executive officer’s question, “but I am certain I saw one. It was
nothing but a hulk with two masts having curious round cages at the
top. There weren’t any yards or sails visible.”

“You are describing a lightship, Faraday,” said Lieutenant Watson,
smiling incredulously. “And there are none within fifty miles of us.
Take my advice and do not cultivate the habit of riding nightmares on
watch.”

With this last bit of sarcasm the officer walked aft and rejoined the
officer of the deck.

“It is hard to believe such a manly, clever cadet as Faraday would lie
deliberately to get out of a scrape,” he said, “but it certainly looks
as if he has been trying it. Fancy a lightship out here. Better take
him off watch, or he’ll be keeping us awake all night. When do you
change the course?”

“At eight bells, sir. It is almost that time now. Good-night, sir.”

“Rather good-morning. There would be a glimpse of dawn in the sky if it
wasn’t for this confounded gale.”

Lieutenant Watson crossed the slippery, tossing deck to the break of
the cabin, and glanced at the clock back of the wheel.

The hands indicated ten minutes of four.

With a sigh for the sleep he had lost, he went below to turn in. Five
minutes later he was buried in a slumber.

In the meantime Clif had been relieved from his post on the forecastle.
When the cadet officer in charge, a first classman, curtly bade him
give way to another plebe, he silently obeyed, but it was evident he
felt the disgrace keenly.

“Don’t you care, Clif,” spoke up Joy, who had formed one of the group.
“Such mistakes are common.”

“But it wasn’t a mistake, Joy,” replied Faraday, earnestly. “I am as
certain I saw that ship twice as I am that I stand here.”

“Did it look like a lightship?” queried a smaller lad.

“I guess so, Nanny. The first luff said I described one. Whew! it was a
peculiar experience. My flesh is creepy yet. I thought we would plump
into her for certain.”

“Tell us all about it, old fellow,” chorused several plebes of the
watch.

“It bad here,” spoke up Trolley. “Me think we blow away pretty soon.
This one lulu of a gale. It peacherine.”

“Right you are, Trolley,” laughed Clif. “The strength of the wind is
only equaled by the force of your slang. We will take refuge in the lee
of the bulwarks down below.”

The rest scurried to the main deck, but he remained a moment clinging
to the railing, and searchingly swept the sea with his eyes.

“I can’t make it out to save me,” he murmured. “I was not asleep or
dreaming. I saw that vessel as sure as fate. But why didn’t the others
see it, too? Spendly was on watch on the other side of the deck. He----
Why, by Jove! probably he was asleep! It’s certainly mysterious.”

The old _Monongahela_ pitched and rolled heavily in the seas. The gale
shrieked unceasingly through the taut rigging. Monster waves, wind
blown and angry, leaped against the stout wooden hull as if eager to
drag it apart. Flying masses of vapor, dank and salty, scudded through
the air, and in the midst of it all the driving rain poured with a
sleet-like sharpness against the faces of the watch on deck.

Ten hours previous the practice ship passed the capes of the Chesapeake.

Moderately fair weather had suddenly given way to a sharp squall
shortly before dark, and this had changed by midnight to a gale which
promised to last until morning.

Clif, with several of his plebe friends, had gone on watch at four
bells--two o’clock--and it was while he was acting as lookout on the
starboard side of the forecastle that he insisted he had sighted a
vessel dead ahead.

He felt rather downcast when he finally left the forecastle and
rejoined his chums under the lee of the port bulwarks. Lieutenant
Watson’s sarcastic words hurt him. And especially so, as he considered
them entirely undeserved.

That he had really seen a vessel almost within a cable’s length of the
_Monongahela_ he was positive. But why had not others seen it? And why
did the ship disappear so mysteriously and suddenly?

Clif was not superstitious, nor did he place any faith in the tales of
the old sailors, but his flesh crept as he cast one last glance at the
raging seas, and he welcomed with gladness Nanny’s cheery voice.

“Hello, chum! See anything more of your _Dutchman_?” laughed the little
lad.

“That’s what Judson Greene called it,” said Joy, gloomily. “He’s always
trying to say mean things. Why can’t he be peaceful, and not always
attempt to stir up trouble? Why ain’t he like me? When I have it in for
a fellow, do I go around casting sneering remarks? No, indeedy! I act
like a peaceful man and a Christian. I simply swat him one with a club,
or beat the blooming head off him.”

“Hurray!” giggled the Japanese youth. “You bully boy after my own--my
own--what you call him?”

“Liver!” suggested a lad named Toggles, gravely.

“Perhaps he means after his own gizzard?” slyly observed Nanny.

There was a general laugh at Trolley’s expense, and he laughed the
loudest of all. Nothing could shake his good nature.

Clif stooped down and, leaning upon a broadside gun, glanced
thoughtfully through the crack of the port shutter.

“Still looking for your ship?” asked Toggles, sympathetically, at his
elbow.

“Yes. But, to tell the truth, I don’t know whether I care to see it
again or not,” was the grave reply.

“Why not, chum? It seems to me that if it was sighted again it would
clear you of any suspicion. What is your reason for not wanting to see
it?”

Clif did not reply at once. Resting against the polished breech of the
heavy gun, he continued to gaze into the dark wall of mist. Presently
he spoke, and his serious tone surprised his hearers.

“Chums,” he said, “do you know I believe there is some mystery
connected with that strange-looking ship?”

“A mystery?” echoed Nanny, wonderingly.

“Yes. I am positive I saw it just as I described it to Lieutenant
Watson. I was standing near the heel of the bowsprit looking ahead,
when, suddenly there came a flash of lightning, and before the glare
died away, I saw a peculiar-looking hull, battered and worn, with two
masts clear of yards and sails. At each top was a queer, round object
shaped like a barred cage. As far as I could see there was no one on
board, and the vessel seemed---- Heavens! what was that?”

Clif’s description ended in an exclamation of profound amazement.
There was good cause for it. Suddenly, and without warning, a horrible
scream, blood-curdling in its intensity, sounded through the length and
breadth of the practice ship.

It was not uttered by any on board, but seemed to come from off the
port beam. There was an instant of breathless silence, then, just as
the crew, aroused and horrified, rushed from below, a second terrible
cry arose above the whistling of the gale.

The men at the wheel were so startled that, stanch seamen though they
were, they involuntarily released the spokes. There was not much
canvas exposed to the wind, merely the topsails and storm staysails,
close-reefed, but there was enough spread to send the ship almost aback.

The captain, hurrying from his cabin, grasped the situation at once.
A sharp word of command brought the sailors to a sense of their duty,
and they hurled themselves upon the wheel just in time to keep the
_Monongahela_ from broaching to.

As she staggered around, trembling under the force of the gale, there
suddenly came a startling cry from amidships.

“Ship abeam! Look! She is almost on us!”

The voice was Clif’s, and the lad, dimly revealed in the faint light
of dawn, was standing upon the lower port main shrouds, pointing with
shaking hand to where, lurching wildly toward the practice ship, was
a grim, weather-beaten hull, with two bare masts, having cage-like
objects in the tops.

The next moment there was a terrific crash and grinding of timbers;
then, as the _Monongahela_ reeled with the shock, the strange ship
staggered away, that weird scream echoing from her deck.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE MYSTERIOUS SHIP.


Discipline is brought to an excellent state of perfection on all
warships as a rule, and the practice cruiser was no exception.

Naval officers are trained to exercise instant discretion in time of
danger, and it is considered a sign of incompetency if one should lose
his wits under such circumstances.

Lieutenant Watson, the executive officer of the _Monongahela_, aroused
from a sound sleep by the indescribable pandemonium, lost no time in
heedless inquiries, but rushed on deck clad only in his nightclothes.

By the time he had cleared the companion ladder the officer of the
watch and the captain of the ship were thundering orders right and left.

Under their instructions the old _Monongahela_ was again before the
wind, and an immediate examination of damages being made.

But in the midst of it all, over on the port side of the main deck,
Trolley, excited and happy, was dancing about Clif, and shouting half
in Japanese and half in English:

“You right, you right! Hurray! Hiko boto, cli jara. You see ship after
all. Hurray! You bully boy. No sleep, but see ship all the time. You
are great peach. Hurray!”

“I knew he was right all the time,” exclaimed Toggles.

“So did I,” chimed in little Nanny.

“The first luff was evidently of a different opinion,” said Clif,
grimly. “But what can be the matter aboard that ship, and what is she?”

“There is something wrong on board,” spoke up Joy. “Those screams were
horrible. My blood is running cold. Yet--look! there she is again!”

He pointed excitedly to leeward, where, dimly visible through the
lightening mist, was the peculiar craft with which the _Monongahela_
had just been in collision.

She lurched and pitched and rolled with the wild irresponsible motion
of a vessel at the mercy of the waves. The dawn was not far enough
advanced to enable those on board the practice ship to distinguish more
than vague outlines.

Every glass on board was directed toward the strange craft as soon as
it was ascertained that little damage had been done the _Monongahela_
by the collision, but nothing indicating the presence of human beings
on board could be seen.

Clif and his friends were wild with curiosity, but not more so than
their shipmates. The peculiar experiences of the night, the sighting
and sudden disappearance of the stranger, the collision, and above all
those weird, half-human cries, had created intense interest.

The captain, Lieutenant Watson and other officers were gathered in the
gangway near where the carpenter and his assistants were making hasty
repairs.

The gale was giving promise of lessening. The wind had died down with
the coming of the sun, but the seas were still running high. Nothing
had been done to increase the spread of canvas, and the old frigate
lurched along at a reduced speed.

“I would give a great deal to learn what ship that is, and the meaning
of those horrible cries,” said Captain Brookes, gravely. “There’s some
mystery about it.”

“She looks like an old-time lightship,” spoke up the executive officer,
working his spyglass.

“Hardly of this century though,” remarked the surgeon, who was a
student of naval architecture from choice. “See! the mist is clearing
now. The sun is shining on her. By Jove, what a queer-looking craft she
is.”

“I’ve a notion,” began the captain, reflectively.

Standing at a respectful distance, but within earshot, were Clif and
his companions. They edged eagerly toward the group of officers,
and Faraday’s intelligent face lighted up with excitement and keen
anticipation.

“He’s going to send a boat,” he whispered to Trolley. “If he does I’ll
be one of the crew or break a leg.”

“Me, too,” chattered the Japanese youth. “I no miss that for----”

“I have a notion, gentlemen,” repeated the captain, “to send over there
and investigate.”

“It’s our duty, sir,” said Lieutenant Watson, emphatically. “If you say
the word, sir, I will take a boat now.”

“Any room for me?” asked the paymaster, earnestly.

“I can pull an oar, sir,” insinuated the marine officer.

“As navigator, I consider it my duty to make the visit,” spoke up a
tall, fine-looking lieutenant.

The captain laughed.

“If it wasn’t against the rules I’d go myself,” he said. “As it is, the
first deck officer shall make the trip. Mr. Jones,” turning to another
officer, “take the whaleboat and a good crew, and see what you find on
board that vessel. Better go armed. There’s no telling what you will
encounter. Make haste, and bring me a detailed report.”

The practice ship’s course was changed, and in less than an hour she
was hove to within a half-mile of the mysterious vessel.

The latter was in plain view now, and she presented a sight that
brought exclamations of wonder and amazement from the _Monongahela_’s
crew.

She was unlike anything in the shape of a vessel they had ever before
seen. She was high forward and aft, with a curious house-shaped
structure amidships. The masts were mere poles, guiltless of yards,
ropes or sails. There was no regular bowsprit forward, but in its place
was a queer, stumpy bow.

At the top of each mast were small, circular, wooden cages. The sides
of the hull seemed to be painted green at first, but the surgeon’s
sharp eyes soon ascertained that it was not paint, but a luxuriant
growth of marine grass.

The decks were littered with _débris_, and trailing over the stern was
apparently a mass of tangled ropes and sails.

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.

The whaleboat swept on and finally gained a position on the lee side of
the tossing hulk. A weather-beaten rope dangling over the side promised
a means of ascending to the deck.

“Catch it, one of you,” shouted the officer. “Shin up the side and take
the painter.”

The position of the boat brought the rope within reach of Clif’s hands,
and he lost no time in obeying the order.

Fortunately the black tarry strands were strong enough to bear his
weight, and he was soon climbing agilely toward the high railing.

Slipping and sliding, up, up he went, the pressure of his feet
dislodging masses of the strange, slimy green marine vegetation
adhering to the storm-beaten planks.

Finally he grasped the rail and crawled over. Then, just as he
disappeared, those below heard a strangling, unearthly cry, followed by
the sounds of a desperate struggle.

Then came one shrill, agonizing appeal for help, and--silence!




CHAPTER IX.

THE FIGHT ON THE DERELICT.


The lieutenant and the crew of the whaleboat, at first aghast with
horror and amazement, speedily recovered their wits.

Springing to his feet, the officer made a grasp for the dangling rope.
Before he could reach it, a long wave swept along the rolling hull and
caught the whaleboat upon its crest.

There was a surge and a violent wrench, and over went the luckless
officer headlong into the sea. The frail craft was swept under the
sloping stem, dashed once against the hull, and then it capsized,
throwing the whole crew into the water.

All this was witnessed by the _Monongahela’s_ crew, and excitement
reigned on board.

Captain Brookes took personal charge of affairs, and under his able
direction two boats, the cutter and sailing launch, were lowered and
manned.

In the latter went Trolley and Joy, both managing to slip aboard during
the excitement.

As yet the full extent of the tragedy was not known. Clif had been seen
to climb over the railing, but the unearthly cry and the appeal for
help had not reached the practice ship. Then came the capsizing of the
whaleboat, and the instant necessity of action.

Lieutenant Watson took command of the cutter, which was the faster of
the two. He was an able man, and he soon had the crew bending to their
oars.

The gale was now a thing of the past; and the sea was rapidly
subsiding. Clear skies overhead, and a brightly shining sun robbed the
scene of much of its former grewsomeness.

In the sailing launch Trolley and Joy were laboring with might and
main, as indeed all were. But the two young plebes had an added
interest in reaching the strange derelict from the fact that Clif
Faraday, their friend and chum, was on board the craft whence those
horrible cries had come.

It was not long before the cutter reached the capsized whaleboat.
Clinging to the keel were five of the crew. They were instantly
dragged on board and a start made for the stern of the derelict.

The lieutenant and the rest of the crew were either swimming in that
vicinity or holding on to the rudder.

The rather clumsy launch dashed up in time to rescue the officer, who
had managed to keep himself afloat by strenuous efforts. As he was
lifted over the side by willing hands, he gasped, hurriedly:

“Quick! board that vessel. Faraday is there, and he is in trouble.”

Trolley exclaimed something in Japanese, and sprang to his feet. Nimbly
stepping forward, he made a flying leap from the launch’s bow, and
caught the rope dangling from the derelict’s stern.

“Stop!” sternly cried the officer in charge. “Wait until you are
ordered to leave the boat.”

But the young Japanese paid no heed to the words. The impetus caused
by the leap sent him swinging and scraping along the slimy side of the
strange craft, but he drew himself up inch by inch, and finally gained
the rail.

“Stand by to catch a rope,” called out the lieutenant, making the best
of the situation. “Make it fast to---- What’s the matter?”

Splash!

It was Trolley. The Japanese youth had suddenly turned, and, with a
shriek of fear, had plunged headlong into the sea.

The crews of the cutter, launch and whaleboat exchanged glances of
undeniable terror. Several seamen began shoving the boats away from the
derelict with their oars.

“Belay that!” shouted Lieutenant Watson, in a rage. “Aboard the launch!
pick up that cadet, and stand by to board. Here, Brown, steady this
rope. I’ll see what’s up on this confounded craft.”

The last words were addressed to the coxswain, who instantly grasped
the lower bight of the line and held it while the fearless officer
ascended. Halfway to the top he held himself with one hand, and
loosened his sword in its scabbard with the other. Then he began again
to draw himself upward.

His progress was watched with breathless interest below. Suddenly the
officer in charge of the sailing launch gave a muttered order. The crew
fell to the oars and the launch dashed ahead toward the bow.

In the meantime, Trolley, dripping wet and evidently badly frightened,
had been dragged from the water. His teeth were chattering, and his
face had assumed a grayish pallor.

“For Heaven’s sake, what’s the matter up there?” queried Joy, in a
frenzy of excitement. “Speak! where is Clif?”

The Japanese youth crouched in the bottom of the boat and muttered and
shook his head like one demented.

Suddenly all eyes were drawn to the railing above by the horrible,
unearthly cry first heard during the gale. It rang out with such
blood-curdling intensity that the faces of the listeners blanched.

“We haven’t any business fooling here!” hoarsely muttered one of the
oarsmen. “This consarned _Flying Dutchman_ is ha’nted. I move we git as
fast as we can.”

“And leave Faraday and Lieutenant Watson behind?” fiercely demanded
Joy. “That’s a fine suggestion.”

Just then the sailing launch reached the bow. A quick scrutiny revealed
several broken bolts and beam ends where the bowsprit and stays had
been torn away. A fragment of chain was hanging down and swinging with
a harsh, grating sound against the side.

“Climb up there, one of you,” called out the officer in charge.

Joy, who was nearest started to obey, but before he could leave the
boat a prodigious hubbub came from aft.

Looking in that direction he saw Lieutenant Watson striking fiercely
with his sword at something behind the rails.

An indescribable pandemonium came from the deck. Harsh cries and
groans, wild shrieks, moans and a queer grunting sound which seemed
more unearthly than all the rest.

One of the cutter’s crew was climbing the rope as fast as his arms
could lift him, and another was preparing to follow.

Almost frantic with excitement, Joy fairly scaled the bow of the
derelict. As his hand touched the broken rail, he heard the heavy
breathing beneath him. A familiar voice gasped:

“Hurry, hurry, Joy! Me want to come, too. Hurry! I no afraid any more,
even if I see plenty devil. Quick!”

The next moment Joy threw one leg over the bulwark and dropped to the
deck. Then, with eyes bulging and face whitened to the color of chalk,
he turned to spring back over the side.

Trolley grasped him by the arms and held him against the rail. A sailor
appeared above the level of the deck, took one glance, then vanished. A
sullen splash proclaimed his destination.

Joy’s fright faded by degrees. Finally he again looked down the deck
over the little house-like structure amidships. What he saw was this:

Up on the high after, or cabin deck, were four horribly grotesque
figures. One was a giant negro, coal black in color, and almost devoid
of clothing.

Tied around his middle was a simple strip of some animal’s skin. His
hair was long and matted. His mouth savage in its brutal gaping. His
narrow eyes fierce and bloodshot. He was bleeding from a great wound,
evidently just given him by Lieutenant Watson, who had retreated to the
extreme after rail.

With the maniac, for such he seemed to be, were three monster apes,
almost as large as a man. They were leaping about with appalling
nimbleness, and uttering strange, blood-curdling, half-human cries.

Lying huddled in the port scupper was Clif, apparently dead. His
uniform had been rent in tatters, and a little rivulet of blood
trickled back and forth upon the deck near him as the derelict pitched
and rolled.

This much Joy and Trolley saw, then one of the apes caught sight of
them.

The monster uttered a cry of rage, and, snatching up a fragment of spar
from the deck, advanced upon them. It leaped with great agility, from
the high after deck to the midship house, and then, still uttering its
horrible screams, sprang upon the forecastle.

But by that time the two plebes had received reinforcements. The
lieutenant in charge of the launch appeared over the railing, and,
after the first gasp of surprise, ordered his men on board.

When the latter caught sight of the giant, gorilla-like ape advancing,
there was a panic, but a stern word from the officer held the seamen
and cadets to their duty.

Joy let fly with a belaying pin he had picked up, and it caught the
monster squarely in the face, staggering him. The advantage was
followed by the lieutenant without loss of time.

Springing forward with drawn sword, he lunged out, sending the point of
the sharp blade into the ape’s breast.

There was a horrible scream of agony as the animal fell to the deck, a
snap of the sword as it broke, then, after a few convulsive shudders,
there was one foe the less.

In the meantime a prodigious hubbub from aft indicated action in that
direction.

When the victorious crew of the launch started aft they saw that
Lieutenant Watson had also received reinforcements. But it was plain
that still others were needed.

The giant negro was fighting with maniacal fury. And the two apes were
following his example so fiercely that the executive officer and his
six companions were hard pressed to keep their ground.

The appearance of the launch’s crew changed affairs at once, however.
Armed with cutlasses, belaying pins and cudgels, they fell upon the
negro and his animal companions and, after a brief but desperate
combat, forced them to retreat.

The maniac fought his way forward. As he was being pursued he sprang
upon the port bulwark and, with a wild, chattering cry, leaped
overboard.

A rush was made to the side, but all that remained to reveal the fate
of the negro were a few bubbles and a widening circle of ripples. He
had gone to his death.

The two apes were writhing upon the deck in their last agony. As the
men turned back, they expired.

Trolley and Joy quickly kneeled at the side of Clif. Their faces showed
their grief and anxiety. A hasty examination brought a whoop of joy
from the Jap.

“He live,” he shouted. “Hurray! he no dead. Get water. Clif no die yet.
Whoop!”

Lieutenant Watson, bleeding and exhausted, bent over the unconscious
lad, and, with the aid of a flask of whiskey, from the launch’s
medicine chest, soon brought a sigh from Clif’s lips.

He came to with a start and a gasp of terror. The latter emotion was
so real that it required considerable effort to soothe him. When he at
last realized the true state of affairs, his relief was manifest.

“Trolley,” he said, tremulously, “I--I thought it was the other world,
and I had taken the toboggan slide by mistake.”

“You all right,” grinned the Japanese youth. “Hurray! It take plenty
kill you.”

Clif managed to stand erect after his wound, a lacerated incision in
the shoulder given by one of the apes, had been attended to.

Lieutenant Watson and the other officers made an inspection of the
strange craft, and found evidences to prove that she had originally
done duty as a primitive lightship in some southern Mediterranean port,
presumably in Algeria.

“I am more inclined to think so from the fact that we found that
African negro and the apes on board,” said the executive officer, as
they returned from below. “I think I understand matters now. This negro
was evidently an attendant on board, and the apes were pets.”

“It’s customary to have them on ships in those ports,” spoke up one of
the officers.

“Yes. Well, the lightship evidently got adrift during a storm and was
blown to sea, through the Gut of Gibraltar.”

“And afterward became a derelict in the Sargasso Sea. I noticed certain
marine fungi and seaweed on the hull which are only found in the
Sargasso.”

“True. This ship probably drifted back and forth for months. All the
crew died except the negro, and he was made insane by his surroundings.
It’s a strange story.”

“Only another mystery of the sea,” said the lieutenant in charge of
the launch, looking about decks. “Now the question is, what will we do
with her?”

“Have a little target practice and send her down to where all derelicts
belong--the bottom,” replied Lieutenant Watson, grimly.

“I may add one thing,” he continued. “I hope never to have such a
terrible experience again.”

“Amen!” muttered Clif, tenderly feeling his wounds.

Three hours later a well-aimed shot from one of the _Monongahela’s_
guns sent the shattered hull of the mysterious derelict down to its
last resting place.

The practice ship stood away on her course, and her crew of naval
cadets speedily forgot the episode in the excitement of other
experiences.




CHAPTER X.

SAIL DRILL AT SEA.


“I don’t believe a word of it!”

“It’s true, nevertheless, Payne.”

“But think what it means, my dear fellow. Why, such a thing has never
been dreamed of before on a naval academy practice ship. Plebes give an
entertainment! Pshaw! you’re crazy!”

“Here comes Blakely. He’ll tell you whether I am right or not.”

The speaker pointed along the starboard part of the _Monongahela’s_
spar deck. Blakely was sauntering forward.

He halted in front of the two and glanced inquiringly at Naval Cadet
Payne, who had beckoned to him.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Why, this chump here has been telling me a ghost story. He says
the old man has given the new fourth class permission to hold an
entertainment on the gun deck.”

“That’s straight, Ferguson.”

“Wh-what!”

“The plebes, headed by that very gally function, Faraday, sent in a
request this morning asking Captain Brookes’ permission to give a
minstrel entertainment on the forward gun deck. The old man gave his
consent at once, and it is to be held Saturday night.”

“Well, that beats the nation!” exclaimed Ferguson, with a prolonged
whistle. “Fellows, the service is going to the bowows. I’ve been a
naval cadet in the service of these great and glorious United States
almost four years, and never have I dreamed of such a state of affairs.”

“It’s all the fault of that Faraday,” muttered Payne. “He’s kicked up
more rows than enough since he entered the academy last month.”

“He’s too fresh.”

“That’s what.”

Blakely looked over the side at the vast stretch of shimmering water
surrounding the practice ship, and smiled.

He was a young man of very fair and even temper, was Walt Blakely,
member of the first class, and captain of the Naval Academy football
team. He rather liked “that cheeky plebe,” Clif Faraday, and he
secretly admired him for that cheekiness, but he also believed firmly
in the divine right of the upper classes.

Therefore when Payne and Ferguson broke out in loud remonstrance he
added his voice to theirs.

“The truth of the matter is,” said Ferguson, resentfully, “the old man
thinks the sun rises and sets in Faraday’s vicinity.”

“Sure thing,” agreed Payne. “Ever since Faraday jumped from the top and
saved Nanny Gote from drowning, he’s in luck.”

“It was a splendid act,” commented Blakely.

“Yes, but it’s no reason for letting the plebes upset all the academy
traditions. Why----”

“There’s Faraday now,” interrupted Payne, nodding his head toward an
approaching figure.

Clif glanced quizzically at the little group as he passed, and then
joined several fourth class men gathered on the forecastle.

Payne and Ferguson reddened slightly.

“He looked as if he knew we were talking about him,” sniffed the
latter.

“He probably does,” said Blakely, dryly. “He’s no fool. He knows his
new move will make more row than a bunch of magpies.”

“I’d like to punch his head.”

“Don’t try it, dear boy. He’s good at that work himself. He knocked
Sharpe out about as neatly as a prize fighter could. What’s that call?”

The shrill blast of a boatswain’s whistle sounded along the deck. As
the tremulous piping died out, a hoarse voice called out:

“All-l hands reef topsails!”

“More drill,” grumbled Ferguson, moving off. “We’ve had nothing but
drill since we left Annapolis.”

“Practice makes perfect,” grinned Blakely, as he started toward his
station.

The quiet decks of the old _Monongahela_ speedily became a scene of
bustling activity. The boatswain’s call brought the watch tumbling aft.
The hatches poured forth a steady stream of active, healthy lads clad
in snowy duck.

The first lieutenant and his assistant, the officer of the deck, took
their stand upon the break of the after deck. The captain sauntered
from his cabin prepared to watch proceedings with a critical eye.

All was ready.

“Aloft topmen!” shouted the first lieutenant, sonorously, through his
trumpet.

At the words a number of nimble cadets, members of the first and third
classes, run up the rigging in a mad race for the top.

On board a vessel like the _Monongahela_ there generally exists a
strong rivalry between the three tops--the fore, main and mizzen.

In all drills, each tries to defeat the others. In making sail it is
the nimble crew that gets all taut first. There are no prizes offered,
but a smile or nod of commendation from the executive officer or
captain is worth more than medal or money.

In making, or furling, or reefing sail a certain number of men--in this
case cadets--are selected as topmen. It is their duty to run aloft and
to man the yards. To lay out and reef or furl, or to handle ropes in
the top.

At the first warning command they spring upon the nettings and mount
the lower part of the shrouds.

They are supposed to wait patiently and in line for the word of
command, but do race horses wait patiently at the post!

They slyly creep up several ratlines until the vigilant eye of the
first lieutenant catches them, then they reluctantly drop back, only to
spring aloft again at the first word from the trumpet.

Once given they risk their necks to gain the top. Arriving there, they
stand ready and wait like champing steeds for the command:

“Lay out!”

In the meantime those below stationed at the fife and pin rails are
to do all in their power to ease off the different halliards and clew
lines and the various running gear.

This latter task, under the careful supervision of several trained
first class men, belongs to the plebes.

It is too soon in the cruise for the latter to trust their precious
lives above the deck, so they pull and haul and try their inexperienced
best to bring their part of the ship in first in this race of knowledge
and brawn.

The topsails are reefed and spread again to the breeze. The sea is
calm, and the blue sky overhead holds no threatening cloud.

The drill goes on until the captain cries “enough.” Then the ship is
made trim once more, and the cadets listen longingly for the sound of
the boatswain’s whistle piping “Mess gear,” for that means dinner, and
if there is anything a naval cadet likes to do at sea, after the salty
breeze and active work has toned his stomach, it is to eat.

And eat he does, rest assured of that.




CHAPTER XI.

TALKING IT OVER.


“I play plenty times in my country. I was bully boy with eyeglass.
Hurray! all Japan girls think I good thing.”

“Did they push you along?”

“He! he! you try be funny, Clif. Yes, they push me along. They say I
good actor and know how to make laugh. Say, Clif, we no do one thing
to other cadets when we have show. Hurray! they die with what you
call--a----”

“Chills and fever?” suggested a lean, solemn-faced lad.

“No. It----”

“Measles?”

“You quit fooling, Joy, or I fracture your face. I mean the cadets die
with envy.”

The group of plebes gathered about the speaker, laughed.

When quarters were over on this morning in question, the exciting news
circulated throughout the ship that Clif Faraday, the cheekiest plebe
of the lot, had boldly asked Captain Brookes for permission to give a
minstrel show.

And the captain had actually consented.

Deep was the wrath on board, and many the dire threats made that the
entertainment would come to an untimely end.

Clif was no fool. He knew that trouble would ensue. But he was looking
for trouble.

The show was simply one link in a chain of reprisals against the common
enemy--the first and third classes.

After drill the six chief conspirators gathered in their usual meeting
place, the port side of the forecastle.

Trolley’s remarks were laughed at, then after a period of bantering,
Clif proceeded to more serious work.

“We are not going to give an entertainment with the ease of an eastern
and peaceful city,” he said, glancing aft at Ferguson, who was in the
center of an animated group of third class men. “We will find our lines
laid out in troublous places, let me tell you. I prophecy that an
earthquake will strike this ship around Saturday night.”

“Hurray!” exclaimed the irrepressible Jap. “Me like earthquakes. That
is the way we settle our coffee in Japan every morning. He! he!”

“Trolley,” said Joy, eying him sadly, “it is time for you to go home.
When a foreigner begins to crack bad jokes he should be given his
passports. As we haven’t any such papers on board, I’ll try my best to
teach you the error of your ways.”

While speaking he had edged slyly toward the Japanese youth. With the
last word he made a spring for him, but Trolley slipped under his arm
and dashed across the forecastle.

Standing near the railing were Judson Greene and Chris Spendly.

Into the former ran Trolley, the shock sending him reeling against the
rail. As Judson grasped at the empty air to steady himself, his cap
fell overboard and was carried astern.

Greene was not a very pleasant-looking youth, despite his rather
handsome face, and now he seemed positively ferocious with rage.

“What do you mean, you yellow nigger?” he howled, making a pass at
Trolley. “How dare you ran into me like that? I’ll give you a lesson
you won’t forget in a hurry.”

But he didn’t. The blow he aimed at the Japanese youth inflicted
no damage. Trolley caught the extended arm by the wrist, and with
apparently little effort, held it in midair.

“I sorry I knock your cap into water,” he said, quietly. “I get you one
for it. But I no let you hit me.”

Judson struggled wildly but he was simply a child in the Jap’s grasp.
Chris Spendly stepped forward to interfere, but Joy confronted him with
such a menacing gesture that he discreetly withdrew.

Clif and the others hurried across the deck, as did a cadet officer who
had espied the conflict from afar.

“What’s up?” asked Clif, endeavoring to separate the two combatants.

“He knocked my----” began Greene, then he added, sullenly: “None
of your confounded business, Clif Faraday! What right have you to
interfere?”

Clif laughed.

“Still as sweet as ever, I see, Greene,” he replied, coolly. “Got the
same angelic temper.”

“Here, what’s this row?” demanded the cadet officer, arriving
breathlessly on the scene. “Fighting, eh? That means the mast to-morrow
morning.”

He produced a book from his blouse and read aloud as he noted:

“On board U. S. S. _Monongahela_, at sea, June 22d. Fourth class
cadets, Judson Greene and Motohiki Asaki, fighting on forecastle. Cadet
Greene without cap and evidently the aggressor.”

“I was not the aggressor!” indignantly cried Judson. “That chump
ran----”

“Cadet Greene proved insolent, and used slang,” continued the cadet
officer, calmly making the entry in his book.

“Guess we’d better get out of this or we’ll be marked for breathing,”
muttered Joy.

“If you will permit me to explain,” spoke up Clif, respectfully. “I saw
the whole affair. It was an accident, and----”

“Cadet Faraday of the fourth class interfered with me in the
performance of my duties, and failed to use ‘sir’ when addressing me,”
monotonously added the officer, writing away.

The plebes exchanged glances and then beat a hasty retreat to the
other side of the forecastle. The senior cadet grinned to himself, and,
restoring his book to its place, swaggered aft.

“Well, that’s certainly one way of keeping even,” exclaimed Clif, with
a whistle. “Did you ever see anything worse than that?”

“Humph!” grunted Joy. “It won’t be a circumstance to what we’ll do to
those fellows next Saturday night. Just let them wait and see.”

“And I do no thing to Judson Greene some days,” said Trolley, doubling
his fist. “I knock him eye into last Sunday. Hurray!”




CHAPTER XII.

JUDSON RECEIVES A SETBACK.


That evening after supper Cadets Blakely and Ferguson were slowly
pacing up and down the port side of the spar deck talking over the
all-engrossing subject--the plebe’s minstrel show.

“To tell you the honest truth, Ferguson,” said the big senior, after a
pause, “I don’t see how we can stop the thing without raising a lot of
trouble.”

“Oh, there is more than one way to kill a cat,” replied the other. “You
just promise that you will lend a hand, and I’ll furnish any amount of
schemes.”

“But the old man has given his consent, you know.”

“That doesn’t cut any ice. What right has he to break a cadet rule? He
was a cadet himself once, and I’ll bet anything he was just as strict
against the plebe class as we are. Why, how was it yourself? Did you
kick and refuse to be--er--to be----”

“Hazed?” smiled Blakely. “Yes, hazed.”

“Humph! I was too scared.”

“The proper feeling. So was I. Why, they made me eat a yard of red
ribbon I brought home to remember my girl by. Yes, made me eat the
whole blamed thing. And it put me in the hospital for a week, too. But
I didn’t kick or squeal either.”

“You can’t say Faraday ever squealed,” said Blakely, quickly.

“No, I won’t say that,” replied Ferguson, reluctantly. “But he’s done
everything else. He’s a fool. Why, the whole plebe class is as impudent
as you please. Yesterday I told that little fellow, Nanny Gote, to do
something for me, and he actually refused.”

“You don’t say! That’s bad. But what was it?”

Ferguson reddened.

“Why, I--it--I just asked him to overhaul my bag and give the clothes
an airing.”

“And----” persisted the big senior, smiling shyly.

“Oh, nothing more--that is, I believe I asked him to wash all the
soiled things.”

“And he refused? The impudent beggar! He’s certainly unreasonable.”

The sarcasm in the words made Ferguson uncomfortable, and he said
nothing for several moments. As they slowly paced up and down the deck
a cadet emerged from the forward hatch and eyed them.

He waited until they had made a turn toward the mainmast, then he
slipped into a dark spot near one of the broadside guns.

As they passed him on their way back he called out in a cautious voice:

“I say, Blakely. Look here a moment, will you?”

The two stopped and faced the speaker, Ferguson with an exclamation of
surprise.

“Hello, it’s a plebe!” he said.

“Judson Greene,” added Blakely, not very cordially. “Well, what do you
want, plebe?”

“I’d like to say a word or two in private,” replied Greene, nervously.

He cast a furtive glance forward as he spoke, and drew farther into the
deepening shadows.

“A word with me? What about?” asked the big senior, coldly.

Judson hesitated and looked at Ferguson. The latter started to go away,
then he stopped and said, significantly:

“If you have anything to say about the plebe entertainment, I can hear
it also. I guess I am as much interested as Blakely.”

“Yes, it’s about the show,” was Judson’s eager reply. “I sympathize
with you fellows and I’ll put you on to a scheme to down Clif Faraday
and his gang.”

Blakely made a gesture of disgust.

“What do you think we are, confound you?” he demanded, angrily. “We
haven’t any use for traitors, and that is what you are. Get out of here
with your dirty propositions. Come, Ferguson.”

Judson slunk away without a word, and the honest-hearted big senior
resumed his walk with Ferguson. A few minutes later he was called on
duty.

As soon as he was alone Ferguson promptly hunted up Greene. Taking him
to a secluded spot, he held a long and earnest conversation with him,
the result of which was evidently satisfactory to both.

In the meantime the object of their conspiracy was busily engaged in
preparing the details of the coming entertainment.

He had secured permission to partition off the forward part of the gun
deck as a hall for rehearsals, and, as only three days intervened
before Saturday, he ordered one held that night.

Curious upper class men, attracted by the unwonted sounds of music,
gathered about the spot, but they were kept in order by a special
detail of plebes, reinforced by the master-at-arms and his assistant.

Shouts of laughter, a confused murmur of voices, an occasional snatch
of song, and the rattling of bones and banging of tambourines only
added zest to the curiosity of the hearers outside the canvas partition.

Among the latter were Ferguson and a sallow, thin cadet named Bryce.
The two were discussing the scene in low tones when Judson Greene
slipped up to them.

“Well?” asked Ferguson, espying him.

“Everything settled,” was the reply, given guardedly. “I’ve prepared
the stuff. It’ll work like a charm.”

“Well, have it ready,” said Ferguson, briefly.

As the youthful traitor glided away, he added to Bryce:

“I hate to dabble in such dirty work, but we must put a stop to this
insolent attempt to give a show. That fellow Greene is a sneak and a
scoundrel, and I wish Faraday would lick him for keeps.”

“After the entertainment is busted up, eh?” laughed his companion.

Ferguson nodded, and the two presently went on deck, the music and
laughter and songs following them like a mocking chorus.




CHAPTER XIII.

PREPARING FOR THE ENTERTAINMENT.


When Saturday dawned, the weather was promising and the members of the
plebe class on board the old _Monongahela_ were as happy as hearty,
good-natured boys can be.

On board a vessel of war Saturday is regarded as a holiday. Only the
necessary work, such as cleaning decks and bright work, is done.

Quarters are held at the usual hour, then Jack’s time is his own. The
“smoking lamp” is lighted, and those who care to indulge in a pipe are
permitted to do so. In passing it may as well be understood that naval
cadets are forbidden to smoke, a wise government deeming it unnecessary
for their health or pastime.

Clif and his friends set to work immediately after quarters. The
forward part of the gun deck was turned over to them, and a stage
prepared by the ship’s carpenter. A curtain was extemporized of bunting
and canvas, and the space about the stage tastefully decorated with
flags of all nations.

“Now, fellows,” said the young leader, cheerfully, “we must have just
one more rehearsal before the grand event.”

“I thought we had the last one yesterday,” grumbled Toggles.

“We did until this morning. Come, Toggles, exert yourself. Remember the
importance of the occasion. We’ve got to do our level best and turn out
a good show or the upper classes will have the laugh on us. Get out
your big horn and try that solo again.”

The affair was to be on the lines of a minstrel performance, but with
novel features. Instead of the familiar, old-time black faces and negro
costumes, Clif had provided different ideas.

“We’ll make it a deep-sea combination,” he had said; “something more
appropriate to the raging main than nigger minstrelsy. We’ll have
Father Neptune and his suite.”

The idea captured the plebes at once, and they had lost no time in
settling on a programme.

Clif, disguised as Neptune, was to occupy the center of the circle. At
the ends were to be Trolley, Toggles, Joy, and another plebe named Grat
Wallace. They were to take the parts of bones and tambo, but to be clad
in the fantastic garb of sea wolves.

Eight other plebes, dressed in cadet uniforms, were to occupy the other
chairs. They were supposed to represent eight mortals captured by
Neptune and compelled to assist in entertaining him.

The plan was novel, and Clif was very anxious to conceal it from
outsiders until the curtain rose on Saturday night.

His efforts had proved successful and he was doubly concerned at this
last moment to keep the secret. While the company was preparing for
the final rehearsal he carefully examined the curtain and saw that the
plebe sentries were alert.

But he totally forgot several deadlights and two gun ports which opened
from the gun deck. They overlooked the sea, and for that reason it
probably never occurred to him that they could be utilized by prying
eyes.

When he returned from his tour of investigation he found the “Naval
Academy Plebe Minstrel Troupe” in their places in full costume.

The orchestra was rather weak. It consisted of two asthmatic fiddles, a
brass horn, an old drum, and a peculiar instrument Trolley had rigged
out of a dishpan and a variety of strings.

In addition Clif was to perform on musical glasses, an accomplishment
he had learned at home. This was to come in the olio, or second, part,
together with juggling by Trolley, tumbling by Toggles, an alleged
humorous address from Joy, and a boxing match between Nanny Gote and
Walters, two of the smallest plebes on board.

The entertainment was to wind up with a skit on life at the Naval
Academy, which promised to create no end of fun.

Clif and Grat Wallace were the joint authors and they had incorporated
sly hits and jokes calculated to drive the upper classes into a frenzy.

The rehearsal proceeded without a hitch until the end of the first part.

Clif was just in the act of rising and ordering his sea wolves to take
the unhappy mortals to the darkest coral cavern in his realm when he
suddenly caught sight of a face at one of the ports.

Clif was shrewd. He knew that it was a spy, and that the slightest
alarm would frighten the fellow away. His plan was formed in an instant.

“Let’s try that last song and chorus again, fellows,” he exclaimed,
cheerily. “I think one more practice would not hurt it. Now, ready! Let
’er go!”

The drum banged, the violins squeaked, and Grat Wallace’s rich tenor
voice rang out in the refrain of “The Cumberland’s Crew.”

While the music was echoing Clif quietly leaned over and whispered to
Joy:

“There’s a spy peeping in the port. I think it is Judson Greene. He
must not be allowed to get away. See if you can’t nip him.”

Joy gave an extra blast on his bass horn, then sprang to his feet and
began to caper around as if it were part of a grotesque dance.

“Good boy!” applauded Clif. “That’s right. That will catch the
audience. Now give us the long slide and that will wind it up.”

Joy did give the “long slide,” and it brought him to the port. He was
lean and lank and agile, and in the twinkling of an eye had reached out
and grasped the spy by the hair.

Clif sprang to his aid, and the two dragged Judson, yelling and
struggling, through the port where he was dangling from a rope leading
to the top of the forecastle. The rope was cut and the end used to make
Master Greene secure.

“Now, you confounded traitor!” cried Clif, “we’ve got you in a place
from which you won’t escape in a hurry. You will spy on us, eh?”

“I’ve got the right to look in a port if I want to,” sullenly retorted
the prisoner. “Let me go, or I’ll tell the captain.”

“Let him go? Not much!” chattered Nanny, excitedly. “He’s in the pay of
the upper classes. I know it because I saw him talking to Ferguson and
his gang. Let’s lick him.”

“No. A whipping would be altogether too good for him,” replied Clif,
sternly. “We’ll gag the traitor and stow him under the stage until the
performance is over.”

Judson set up a yell, but he was effectually squelched by Trolley and
Toggles. A couple of towels were brought into use and he was speedily
gagged and thrust into a corner.

“Nanny, you and Walters can stand guard over him until evening,”
directed Clif, “then we’ll stow him under the stage. He won’t be missed
without Ferguson tumbles to the racket.”

If Judson Greene had the power of speech he might have said something
that would have made Clif rather uneasy. He could think, though, and he
did. And his thoughts took this form.

“Clif Faraday, you think you are clever, but you’ll find out there are
others on earth. Before ten o’clock you will not only have your show
busted up, but you’ll be in disgrace, too!”




CHAPTER XIV.

THE MINSTREL SHOW.


All afternoon and until after supper time Clif and the rest continued
their preparations for the entertainment which was destined to prove
(so they fondly hoped) the crowning triumph in their successful
campaign against the higher classes.

The clever young leader and his clever companions had every reason to
anticipate success, for had they not beaten the hazing third class at
its own game many times?

They had caught the spy (one of their own class, more shame to him)
sent out by the enemy, and now he was stretched, bound and gagged, in
one corner of the stage with little Nanny doing valiant sentry-go over
him.

Clif was tactician enough to send out scouts among the other cadets to
ascertain if there were signs of a plot to break up the entertainment,
but all he learned was that a number of the upper cadets had secured
certain articles of a vegetable nature, also several ancient specimens
of hen fruit.

Whereat Clif chuckled.

“They think this is a barn-storming troupe, eh?” he said. “Well, we
will fool them.”

It was an exceedingly warm evening. A light breeze which had been
previously blowing from the northeast, died out entirely by dusk,
leaving the old _Monongahela_ rolling sluggishly upon a long heaving
swell--the after effect of a gale in some quarter of the ocean.

The “Naval Academy Plebe Troupe” found it very sultry and close on the
gun deck, and when the boys donned their heavy costumes they were a
very warm set of youngsters indeed.

Shortly before the hour set for the performance one of the wardroom
stewards came forward with a large wooden pail of lemonade and said it
was a present from aft.

The plebes were delighted, and they lost no time in refreshing
themselves.

“Tell them we are exceedingly obliged,” said Joy, emptying his third
glass. “This is great, simply great.”

The man grinned and withdrew. Five minutes later the seats in front of
the improvised stage began to fill up.

“To your places, fellows,” ordered Clif, who was acting as stage
manager. “Now, remember, we’ve got a reputation to maintain. The eyes
of the--er--whole world are upon us. So behave yourselves and act
like--er--like----”

“James Owen O’Connor,” grinned Wallace.

A stamping of feet came from the audience. It was time for the curtain.

At a signal from Clif, the boys at the ropes promptly hauled up the
canvas exposing to view the expectant audience.

In the front row were the captain and all the officers off duty. Back
of them, seated upon benches, chairs, and ditty-boxes were the cadets
and part of the crew.

As the curtain rose above the stage a low whistle was heard, and then
came a perfect hail of soft potatoes, cabbages and wads of oakum soaked
in slush.

But these testimonials from the envious upper classmen never reached
their intended destination. Clif, with commendable foresight, had
provided a second curtain of netting.

The offering of decayed vegetables fell harmlessly to the deck and a
wail of disappointment came from the throwers.

“This tomfoolery must stop right now,” exclaimed the captain, rising
from his chair and addressing the senior classmen. “If you cannot act
as gentlemen you can leave this deck.”

He sat down, looking red and indignant.

The nondescript band upon the stage broke out into a tune which bore a
distant resemblance to the “Star Spangled Banner.” The alleged music
wound up at last, and Clif rose to his feet.

Those in the audience saw him pass one hand across his forehead in a
half-dazed manner. He swayed slightly and was seen to grasp the arm of
his chair.

“Captain and officers, and cadets of the _Monongahela_,” he began,
speaking indistinctly, “it gives me--me the greatest pleasure to
in--introduce to your favorable consid--consideration this talented
ag--ag----”

He turned and glanced at Joy, and that youth, ordinarily solemn and
mournful in appearance, broke into a hysterical giggle.

Two members of the audience--Ferguson and Bryce--exchanged glances, and
covered their mouths with their hands.

“Glory! it’s working,” whispered the former.

“Just watch the old man,” was Bryce’s reply. “He smells a rat already.
This is great.”

Down in front the commander of the _Monongahela_ was eying the stage
with a puzzled expression on his face. One or two of the officers were
smiling.

Suddenly Nanny began to chuckle and hold his sides as if highly amused.
He attempted to leave his chair, but toppled over against Trolley.

“That will do,” shouted Clif, thickly. “We’ll go on with the
performish. Ladies an’ gemmen, the firsh number on the pro--gramish
will be rendered by the whole troupe. I’m supposed to be Father
Nepchune. You all know ’m. He ish patron father of all shailors. Thatsh
me. Those pecuyliar-looking animalish at each end are shea-wolves. And
in th’ middle on each side--ha! ha! how’s that for Irish bull?--in
the middle on each side are supposed to be mortals. Everyday ord’nary
mortalish. They came down in m’--my reals--no, my realms, and now they
got to amuse me before they go back to the Naval Academy.”

He sat down abruptly and laughed vacantly.

A titter ran through the audience. It quickly grew into a roar, and
then the gun deck resounded with shouts of laughter, catcalls, and
vociferous applause.

The captain was plainly growing angry, but he managed to keep his
temper.

“Is this part of the show?” he whispered to the first lieutenant, who
sat next to him. “If so, those boys are excellent actors.”

“I can’t make up my mind,” replied the executive officer, watching the
stage narrowly. “That youngster, Faraday, is very clever. He’s apt to
spring most any kind of surprise. But, as you say, if it’s part of the
play----”

He was interrupted by a wild howl. Trolley had suddenly leaped to
his feet and was giving a grotesque Japanese dance. His eyes were
glittering and he giggled and yelled incessantly.

“Go it, Jap!” cried Grat Wallace, clapping his hands. “Let’s show ’em
wh--what we can do. Whoop! we’re the bes’ plebes ever entered the ol’
academy! We’ve licked the third class fellows every round. Whoop! We’ll
do ’em up every time.”

An answering shout came from several upper classmen in the audience at
this challenge. A small coil of rope, fastened with yarn, was hurled at
the stage. It struck the netting, tore a great hole in it, and landed
with a thump upon Toggles, who was evidently asleep in his chair.

Clif was seen to stagger to his feet and attempt to speak, but the
uproar was too great. The pandemonium was brought to an abrupt ending,
however, by the captain and first officer, who rose from their chairs
and faced the audience.

“Go on deck, all of you,” shouted the former, sternly.

“I’ll court-martial any cadet caught down here within three minutes.”

The order had an immediate effect. The deck was cleared in the time
specified, then the officers, including the surgeon, took possession of
the stage.

Trolley and a plebe from California had gotten into a fight over in one
corner. They were quickly separated. Then the captain turned upon Clif,
who was swaying back and forth with the greater part of his Neptune
costume still on him.

“Mr. Faraday, what is the meaning of this?” demanded the commander,
authoritatively. “You are drunk, sir, outrageously drunk.”

Something like a startled expression passed over Clif’s face. He rubbed
his forehead vaguely and muttered:

“Beg your pardon, I guess I--I feel queer. My head is all dizzy.”

“I don’t doubt it!” snapped the first lieutenant. “You have made a
beast of yourself. This is intolerable.”

“Doctor, examine him,” said the captain, curtly.

The surgeon placed his head close to Clif’s mouth, examined his pulse
and eyes, then reported, briefly:

“He is certainly under the influence of some strong stimulant, but I
can’t detect any odor of liquor.”

Captain Brookes turned to the executive officer, and said:

“Place all of them under close arrest. See that they do not----”

He was interrupted by a faint knocking under his feet. A couple of
planks were lifted and Judson Greene, perspiring and miserable, was
lifted into view.

The rope and gag removed, he explained that he had been brutally set
upon by Faraday and the other plebes, and thrown under the stage.

Just as he concluded his doleful tale, the surgeon, who had been poking
about, discovered the pail which had contained the lemonade. A few
cupfuls still remained in the bottom.

“What’s this?” he exclaimed, excitedly. “Hum! traces of chloral, and
gin, and beer. Ye gods! what a combination! I must test the devilish
mixture. Hum! no wonder the lads went crazy. Captain!”

That officer hastily joined him. Holding the pail at arm’s length, much
as if it were a charge of dynamite, the surgeon continued:

“Here’s the solution to the secret, sir. I can see it plainly. It’s a
trick, a dastardly trick to disgrace these poor lads.”

The worthy surgeon was not a graduate of the academy, had not been an
upper classman, therefore he could feel for the “miserable plebes.”

“You say the lemonade has been drugged?” asked the captain,
incredulously.

“Undoubtedly. Just smell this peculiar odor. Can’t you trace the
characteristic scents of gin and chloral?”

The captain could not, but he was willing to believe the surgeon,
knowing that he was a very capable man who had made a hobby of drugs
and narcotics.

“If that is true, it certainly alters the case,” he said,
reflectively, glancing at the members of the late “Naval Academy Plebe
Troupe,” who were either asleep or showing every indication of becoming
so, with the exception of Clif.

The latter was evidently making a desperate effort to throw off the
effect of the drugs. His eyes were brightening, and he stood erect.

“Just take them to the sick bay, doctor, and keep them there until
morning. I’ll hold a strict investigation then,” said Captain Brookes.

Clif attempted to speak, but the kind-hearted officer told him to
keep his story until the next day. The “troupe” was escorted by the
master-at-arms and assistants to the surgeon’s quarters and a number of
the crew placed at work clearing away the stage.

It was some time after pipedown before the excitement died out.
Ferguson, Bryce and several others in the secret, discussed the affair
rather gloomily. They were not afraid of discovery, as they felt
assured neither Clif nor the others concerned would turn informer; but
they were disappointed at the outcome of the plot.

Ferguson voiced the sentiments of his companions when he said, with
emphasis:

“I wish that confounded sawbones had kept his poky nose out of that
pail. If he hadn’t smelled the gin and stuff we’d had Faraday dead to
rights. As it is now, they’ll clear him and shelve the affair among the
other hazing mysteries.”

And that is just what happened. Captain Brookes held a consultation
with the executive officer and surgeon; sent for Clif and asked him
a few questions, which the lad cleverly evaded, then the affair was
dropped.

The gallant commander had passed through the mill himself, so to speak,
and he had no intention of pressing the matter. For which all concerned
were truly thankful.

For several days, Clif and his fellow-plebes were compelled to endure
many sly allusions to their escapade.

Upper class cadets would give elaborate imitations of the various
stages of intoxication on seeing them; and cadet corporals would speak
thickly when giving orders.

To all of which Clif would grimly compress his lips and nod his head as
if intimating that the war was not yet over.




CHAPTER XV.

THE NIGHT DRILL.


It was one night of many since the shores of America had faded astern.
It was the early hours when time hangs heavy.

Back and forth marched the officer in charge of the ship. He had paced
the stretch between rail and rail of the slender bridge fully fifty
times. He was thinking longingly of the approaching hour when his
relief would report, and he would be free to forget the monotony of
ship life in the seclusion of sleep.

Suddenly, as he neared the ladder leading to the quarter-deck, he
almost collided with a dark figure.

There was a brief interchange of words, then the lieutenant leaned over
the railing and called, softly:

“Messenger boy!”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

A lad in a sailor’s uniform emerged from the gloom, and knuckled his
forehead with one hand.

The lieutenant gave him a whispered order, and the messenger hastily
descended the ladder and disappeared forward. A few moments later the
oppressive stillness of the night gave way with startling abruptness to
a most prodigious clatter.

R-r-rat-a-tat! R-r-rat-a-tat!

The sharp roll of the drum awoke the echoes of the old frigate, sending
an infernal din of noise through decks and rigging and hull. It was
caught up and hurled about from sail to sail; it burst upon the ears
of the watch below, sending men from their hammocks in alarm. And it
changed the scene from one of peaceful quiet into a pandemonium of
hurrying figures and excited voices.

“Silence fore and aft!” came the stern command from the bridge. There
were three figures there now. And one was the captain.

The noise ceased as if by magic. Several lights flashed fore and aft,
and revealed in the faint light were a number of grim black cannon,
each surrounded by motionless sailors, every group being as rigid as
the iron itself.

An officer, half clad, but girdled with belt and sword scabbard, leaves
one of the groups and hurries to the space in front of the bridge. His
sword flashes as he salutes.

“First division ready, sir.”

The words came crisp and sharp. He had scarcely finished when another
officer hastens up and makes a similar report, then another and another.

This scene just described, which to an inexperienced eye would have
seemed strange and warlike, was a drill, pure and simple.

It was general quarters--a ceremony where the ship is ready to fight,
when the crew is ready to work the guns, and battle to the death
with the foes of their country. It was a night alarm, too, entirely
unexpected by the crew, and therefore a fine practical test of the
resources of the frigate in moments of hasty peril and attack.

The captain smiled grimly as he glanced at his watch by the light of
the hand lantern. Turning to the first lieutenant, he said, in a low
voice:

“Fair time, pretty fair. Ship ready for action in seven minutes.
Could be better, though,” was the reply. Then the officer added,
questioningly:

“Shall I order retreat from quarters, sir?”

Captain Brookes gave a quick glance into the darkness enshrouding the
frigate, and replied:

“No. It’s a good night for further drill. We’ll try ‘abandon ship.’”

“Man the boats only, sir?”

“No; lower them. The sea is rather quiet. It might be a good idea to
send the boats out half a mile. It will give the cadets a taste of
actual experience.”

Lieutenant Watson, the executive officer of the _Monongahela_, was too
well trained to offer an objection, or even advice, but he glanced
askance at the black wall surrounding them, as he called out:

“Bugler, sound abandon ship.”

There was a quick, lively blast of a bugle, then the men and cadets
melted away from their stations and swarmed about the boats secured in
the davits.

The frigate was hove to, and when her way was checked the small boats
were lowered and brought alongside the sea gangway.

It was ticklish work descending into the frail crafts as they pitched
and rolled under the lee of the towering hull, but the various crews
were embarked without mishap.

“Pull away to sea, and await signal to return,” bawled the executive
officer from the bridge.

“Ay, ay, sir,” came faintly through the darkness.

“Officers of boats will examine stores and equipments,” was the next
order. “Also ascertain proficiency of crews.”

Again came the obedient replies, then the captain, first lieutenant and
the men kept on board as a precaution, settled down to wait.

“We will give them ten minutes,” said the former, presently. “They
can’t pull far in that time. Nothing like actual experience to----”

He paused abruptly and glanced out to windward. A chill blast had
suddenly come from that direction. The old _Monongahela_ gave an uneasy
roll.

“That means wind and plenty of it, sir,” exclaimed Lieutenant Watson.
“Shall I----”

“Hoist the recall at once,” broke in Captain Brookes.

A moment later a cluster of lights swung aloft from the main truck of
the frigate.

And leaning out over the lee railing of the bridge were the two
officers, both watching for answering signals, but neither confessing
to the other the anxiety caused by that threatening puff of wind.

On vessels of war each separate boat, from the sailing launch to
the dingy, has its own crew, and coxswain. In certain drills and
ceremonies, such as abandon ship, every man on board ship is ticketed
to a certain boat. To that craft he promptly repairs when the signal is
given. Constant practice makes every member of the crew familiar with
his duties, and drill, or the real action, passes without confusion.

The sailing launch of the _Monongahela_ was a large seaworthy boat,
capable of safely carrying twenty men. When it was rowed away from the
frigate on this dark night it contained that number in its crew.

The officer in charge was a lieutenant, and he had under his command
five seamen, a coxswain and thirteen cadets.

Among the latter were Clif, Trolley and Joy.

“I say, Trolley, isn’t this nice work for Christians to be laboring
at?” asked Joy. “Didn’t I tell you that war causes all the trouble in
this world? Here we are out in the bosom of the mighty deep, working
away like a lot of slaves when we might be comfortable starving at
home. I tell you peace is the thing.”

The Japanese youth laughed softly.

“You fool me one time, my Joy,” he replied. “I think when I first know
you that you great boy for peace. But----”

He chuckled, and added, with evident zest:

“You no like to eat more than you like fight. You whip three upper
class boys, and not half try. When Clif Faraday say we do more things
to third class fellows you roll your eyes and you lick your chop. You
what American boys call one big bluff.”

The object of this arraignment laughed and gave an added spurt with his
long ashen oar. The launch pitched and rolled in the seas, and steadily
forced its way through the blackness.

Far astern twinkled the lights of the practice ship, seeming no larger
than star points in the distance.

Overhead the darkness increased, the expanse of sea being banked in
by gathering clouds. A breeze, cool and moist with a salty dampness,
sprang up, giving a fleeting spray to the edge of the waves.

It was a strange experience to the young naval cadets, this tossing
about in an open boat upon a heaving sea whose broad bosom sparkled and
glowed with the sheen of phosphorescent lights.

There was something fascinating in it all, something so peculiarly
attractive that all wished the signal of recall would be long in coming.

They had been aroused from slumber, the majority of them, and had
plunged from the peacefulness of their hammocks into the midst of
bustle and wild excitement. They had worked the guns in imitation
of battle attack, then, as a fitting climax to all, here they were
launched away from the ship with only a few frail planks between them
and the remorseless ocean.

There was no thought of danger in their minds, however. It was all
play--a jolly good game in which the boats, and the sea, and the
freshening wind were the toys.

So they laid to the oars and forced the boats over the waves farther
and still farther from the ship. And the breeze came in stronger puffs
and the clouds gathered overhead in the darkness, and at last there
came a time when the experienced officers in charge of the little
flotilla received the same sudden shock as did Captain Brookes and his
first lieutenant.

The shock was the icy blast. It sent the light crafts rolling, and
called forth muttered exclamations of consternation from those who were
experienced in the treachery of old ocean.

Then came the recall. A cluster of lanterns swung aloft bidding the
boats return. They had barely started on the back track when a deep,
sullen boom echoed across the water.

“By George! it’s time,” muttered the lieutenant in charge of the
sailing launch. “The old man sees his mistake and he’s hurrying us up.”
He added, aloud:

“Pull away, men. Bend to it. That’s the recall gun.”

“We know that all right,” said Clif to his seatmate. “It’s the recall
gun, and it is not a minute too soon.”

Twelve oars dipped and rose in steady cadence, the dripping blades
flashing with phosphorescent fire. Twelve sturdy backs were bent and
twelve pairs of arms labored lustily, sending the launch from wave
crest to wave crest like a thing of life.

Twinkling here and there were the lanterns of other boats, but the
launch’s light had blown out.

The blackness of the night was appalling. It rested upon the water like
a thick blanket. The men in the boats could hardly see the backs of
those in front of them. The coxswains faced an impenetrable wall.

“Pull away!” again called out the lieutenant of the launch. “See if
you can’t get more speed out of her, boys.”

He spoke coaxingly, trying to hide even from himself his intense
anxiety.

His words were not needed. The launch’s crew understood the peril as
well as he. One old sailor exclaimed to his mates:

“It’s the ship in five minutes or Davy Jones’ locker forever, boys.
There’ll be a living gale down on us in a jiffy. If ye love life break
your backs.”

A fresh spurt--made against an increasing sea--followed this
admonition. One of the oars cracked ominously and it was speedily cast
aside. There were spare ones, and the progress of the boat suffered
little.

Clif, Joy and Trolley labored like heroes. They were inexperienced in
the ways of the weather, but they realized that their position was one
of great danger. All three were cool, however.

“It make good incident for book I am going to write on navy,” said the
Japanese youth. “I like this. It plenty fun.”

“You would laugh in a cyclone or dance in a burning crater,” remarked
Joy, with a grim chuckle. “If all Japs are as brave as----”

“Back oars!” suddenly interrupted the lieutenant. “Back for your----”

Crash!

High above the whistling of the wind came the grinding of shattered
timbers and the startled cries of a score of excited men. Then came a
series of quick splashes, more shouts, and finally one long appealing
cry for help.




CHAPTER XVI.

FRIENDS IN ADVERSITY.


During his brief career as a cadet at the United States Naval Academy,
Clif had not been placed in many very startling and dangerous
situations, but he was a youth of natural coolness of character, and
one quick to act in cases of emergency.

In the present situation all his coolness was needed.

When the sudden and entirely unexpected crash came, Clif and the other
members of the crew were bending all their energies forward, forcing
the launch back to the practice ship.

With head bent low and arms tugging at the oar he worked away, knowing
full well that their very lives depended upon their reaching the
_Monongahela_ before the sudden gale increased.

Clif heard Joy and Trolley talking, then came the lieutenant’s fierce
interruption, and then chaos seemed to come, and overwhelm boat and
crew in one mighty crash.

The lieutenant’s warning cry came too late for preparation. Clif felt
himself thrown headlong from his seat upon the man in front. There was
a wild scramble, then the waters of the ocean rolled up and engulfed
all.

When Clif regained the surface he at once instinctively struck out. In
no general direction, but with a natural desire to keep afloat.

He heard cries about him, and a splashing and floundering as if a score
of men were making a desperate fight for their lives. And mixed in with
the hubbub was the keen whistling of the growing gale.

Suddenly the lad came in contact with some yielding body. He heard a
gasp and a gurgle, then two arms were thrown about his neck and down
went his head beneath the surface.

It is not in the duty of man to drown without making an effort for
life. Neither should one go down at the frantic assault of another
until all means of aiding both have been exhausted.

Clif instantly realized that he was in the clutches of one whom peril
had rendered frantic. He also knew that he must release himself right
speedily if he expected to save himself.

Calling all his power into play, he threw off the strangling arms, at
the same time gasping hoarsely:

“Strike out, man. Do something for yourself.”

He received no answer. The fellow faded away in the blackness, leaving
Clif to swim unencumbered. Luckily, the lad was at home in the water,
else he would have found sore trouble in keeping above the buffeting
waves.

He struggled on, striving his best to see aught of hope in the
prospect. The wind swept the crests of the seas into a thousand
stinging lances. The roar of the increasing storm sounded like a
mocking chorus of demons. Occasional cries for help echoed above the
brawling of the elements.

Suddenly the lights on the practice ship, which Clif had kept before
his eyes as well as he could, began to grow dim.

“Surely they will not leave us to perish miserably,” groaned the lad.
“They will stand by until some of the boats report.”

Wild with fear he struck out savagely, and in the act drove plump
against some hard object.

The sudden shock sent him under the surface once more. When he emerged
gasping and half stunned, he heard the sound of a familiar voice
nearby in the darkness.

“Come up higher, Trolley, the boat can stand it. That’s it; give me
your hand. Steady, steady, ah-h!”

“It’s Joy, and he has found help,” hopefully muttered Clif.

He swam in the direction whence the words had come, and speedily
reached what proved to be the launch, floating capsized at the mercy of
the waves.

Upon the upturned bottom were two dark smudges just visible against the
black background of the night.

Grasping the end of the keel, Clif drew himself up and sat panting upon
the bottom planks.

“Who is that?” called out Joy.

“It’s what is left of me,” replied Clif.

“Hurray, it’s Faraday!” shouted the Japanese youth. “Hurray, Clif, me
glad you saved. Shake!”

“This is a dreadful business,” exclaimed Faraday, as he wrung the
proffered hand. “Seen anything of the other fellows?”

“Not a sign,” replied Joy. “We have heard lots of cries, but we are the
only ones who have reached this launch.”

“What was the trouble? A collision?”

“Yes. I think we ran into one of the cutters. Whew! how this blamed
thing does roll.”

It required all the efforts of the three to retain their position upon
the tossing launch. The sweep of the waves sent a perfect deluge of
water over them at times, and they were compelled to cling with tooth
and nail.

The force of the wind continued unabated, but it was evident from the
suddenness of its coming and its very fierceness that it would not last.

The lights of the _Monongahela_ were no longer visible. Immediately
after gaining the comparative safety of the capsized launch, Clif
eagerly scanned the horizon.

“I am afraid she has been driven off before the gale, fellows,” he
said, anxiously.

“It certainly looks that way,” agreed Joy. “I guess we can say good-by
to the old _Monongahela_.”

“It say good-by to us,” chimed in Trolley. “It go away; we no want to.”

He spoke lightly, but he fully understood the extreme gravity of the
situation. All three realized that their lives were in deadly peril.

With only the frail planks of an overturned boat between them and
the depths of the angry sea, it was plainly evident that little hope
remained.

And what of the others who had left the practice ship?

Clif shuddered and his eyes moistened as he recalled the names of his
shipmates. Some there were who had not been friendly to him. Many had
sworn undying vengeance because he had led the plebes on more than one
successful resistance to the hazing of the upper classes. In that very
launch Judson Greene had pulled an oar.

All animosity was forgotten now, however; in the presence of such an
awful tragedy only heartfelt sympathy and regret could live.

“Haven’t you seen anything of the others?” he asked again.

“Nary sign,” replied Joy, gloomily.

“I guess they gone down,” muttered Trolley. “Poor boys! Me very sorry.”

A realization of their own situation was suddenly brought home to them.
A curling wave, higher than the rest, abruptly broke over the launch
with such force that all three lads were hurled bodily from the keel.

Clif was thrown a dozen feet away from the boat, and when he regained
the surface after the violent plunge he found himself buffeted about in
a smother of foam.

He struck out blindly, and at the same time called lustily for his
companions. An answering cry came at once.

“Clif! Clif! where are you?”

Guided by the voice, he reached the boat once more, but only after a
most desperate struggle.

He felt himself clutched by the collar and dragged against the gunwale.
Then he saw to his infinite surprise that the sailing launch had
righted.

“All present and accounted for, and better off than before.”

These cheery words came from Clif as he scrambled into the boat and saw
that both Joy and Trolley were there.

“Yes, but if we want to continue to be present we’d better commence to
bail,” replied the former.

Trolley felt about under the submerged seats and brought up a bailer
which had been wedged in one corner. With this he set industriously to
work.

Clif and Joy did what they could to help, and before long the water in
the launch was materially decreased. The boys labored with lighter
hearts. Hope was not so far distant after all.

In this world many things are measured by circumstances. To the
drowning man a straw is worth clutching for.

After ten minutes of incessant labor Clif straightened up and announced
what was patent to his companions.

“Only a foot of water left, fellows. We can stand that for a time.”

“If we only had oars or something to keep the blessed craft before the
wind we’d stand a show of living until morning,” said Joy.

“We look for things,” announced the Japanese youth, suiting the action
to the words.

Clif continued bailing as a heavy wave had thrown more water over the
side. Joy and Trolley started to search the boat forward.

There were speedy results. An eager cry came from Joy, and he called
back:

“Here’s a find, Clif. The boat’s mast and sails are still fastened
to the seats where they were before she capsized. Hurrah! We can do
something now.”

Clif ceased bailing in a jiffy and scrambled forward. He found his
companions tugging away at a long, shapeless mass, which resolved
itself into a mast and a damp, soggy leg-o’-mutton sail.

“This is great,” he exclaimed, exultantly. “It means that we can manage
to keep afloat and make a little headway, anyway. It can’t be far to
the coast of Portugal, and if the old _Monongahela_ don’t turn up we’ll
take a cruise of our own.”

“We’ve got to have rudder,” said the ever practical Trolley. “Sail no
good without rudder.”

“Sure thing,” replied Joy. “Don’t worry, we’ll get one all right.
There’s a spare oar wrapped up with this sail.”

He had made the welcome discovery while unfolding the canvas.

The three castaways set to work without delay, and after half an hour’s
hard labor, during which they were compelled to stop and bail a dozen
times, they finally had the mast stepped, and a closereefed sail spread.

By degrees the launch worked around until it at last fell off before
the wind. It was a change from the constant, dangerous rolling in the
trough of the sea, but the pitching caused by the enormous waves was
anything but pleasant.

The three lads took turns at steering. The solitary oar found with the
sail answered the purpose well enough.

The night dragged slowly. As time passed, however, it became apparent
that the gale was abating. The sea still ran high, but the wind
lessened, until at last, just before dawn, it died down to an ordinary
breeze.

And how the miserable, water-soaked, poor castaways waited for the
first gray streaks of the coming day!

Light would mean much for them. It would reveal either the welcome
outlines of the practice ship, or a dreary expanse of desolate ocean.
It would tell at once whether they were destined to find hope or be
condemned to an uncertain fate.

Small wonder then, that Clif and Joy and Trolley stood up and watched
and watched as the first faint rays of the sun drew the expanse of
ocean from its pall of darkness.

Trolley was the first to make a discovery. Grasping the swaying mast
with one hand, he leaned far out and pointed a shaking finger to an
almost shapeless object just visible on the port beam.

A cry in a strange tongue--his own language--came from his lips, then
he added, excitedly:

“Look! It ship or something. Look there, quick!”

“It is not a ship,” replied Clif, slowly. “It seems to be a capsized
hull or something. Perhaps it is a dead whale.”

There was bitter disappointment in his voice.

“It no whale,” insisted the Jap. “It too big. I think it as you say, a
turned over ship. Maybe----”

“I say, there’s something floating over there,” hastily interrupted Joy.

He indicated a spot some distance off the port quarter. It was merely a
speck tossing about at the mercy of the waves.

Clif watched it long and earnestly, then he said, with more excitement
than he had yet shown:

“Do you know, I believe it is a body tied to a bit of wreckage.”

“Let’s investigate. Perhaps the person may be still alive, if it is a
person.”

Clif sprang to the stem and grasped the steering oar, which had been
abandoned with the coming of daylight. Joy and Trolley handled the
sail, and the launch was soon lumbering along on the opposite tack.

The sea was subsiding with each passing moment. The breeze was just
strong enough to allow of the free handling of the boat. In the east
the sun was climbing into a sky almost cloudless. It promised to be a
perfect day.

Under other circumstances the cadets would have felt light-hearted and
happy. But the memory of the recent night and its tragedy, and of their
present desperate situation attuned no merry song for them.

As they approached the object floating at the mercy of the waves, they
became more and more excited. Finally Trolley sprang up with a shout.

“It two bodies, and they tied to spar,” he cried. “They no dead. I see
one move.”

As if to prove the truth of his words, one of the objects feebly waved
an arm.

A faint shout came across the water.

“Help! Help!”

Clif glanced at Joy in amazement.

“That voice is familiar,” he exclaimed. “Can it be----”

“It is Judson Greene,” hastily interrupted the lanky lad. “He was in
the launch with us last night.”

“I am heartily glad he is saved,” said Clif, sincerely. “Poor fellow,
what a terrible time he must have had last night.”

“No worse than us,” muttered Trolley. “He no good anyway. Why he saved
instead of good man?”

“Trolley never forgives an enemy,” said Joy. “He has it in for Judson
Greene. And I don’t blame him, either. The fellow is a cad of the first
water, and very dirty water at that.”

“We can’t bear animosity under present circumstances,” replied Clif. “I
don’t like the fellow any more than you do. He’s tried to injure me in
a thousand ways, but I am willing to forget it.”

The Jap and Joy exchanged glances, and the latter said, softly:

“That’s Clif all over. He’s as generous as he is brave and good, bless
his old heart!”

The launch crept nearer and nearer to the strange bit of flotsam. The
body of the other castaway was presently brought into view; then, as
the sailboat swept alongside, a simultaneous cry of joy came from the
trio:

“It’s Nanny!”

The other boy had fallen back, evidently from sheer exhaustion. He half
rose again, and cried wildly:

“Help me into the boat, Faraday. Please hurry; I’m nearly dead. Quick!”

“The same old Judson,” muttered Joy. “Always thinking of himself. From
the looks of things, he’s not half as bad as Nanny. The poor youngster
is wounded. There’s blood all over his face and head.”

“Keep up your spirits,” cheerily called out Clif. “We’ll have you with
us in a jiffy. Stand by, fellows. Steady! that’s it. Now, Judson, give
us a hand with Nanny.”

But Greene cast off the rope binding him to the spar--evidently a
fragment of some wrecked mast--and unceremoniously scrambled over the
launch’s gunwale.

“Thank God!” he gasped, sinking into the bottom. “I thought I’d never
see daylight again.”

“Still the same old Judson,” muttered Joy again, assisting Clif and
Trolley to transfer Nanny’s insensible form to the launch.

When it was finally accomplished, the little cadet lay like one dead.

Clif, by a hasty examination, found that his heart was still beating,
however. He applied water to the poor bruised face, and tried every
means in his power to revive the lad. He worked with infinite
tenderness, as he had great sympathy and affection for little Nanny.

At last the boy gasped and opened his eyes. He was still dazed, and he
stared at those about him in a strangely terrified manner.

There was fear in his eyes and his actions--a deadly and unexplainable
fear. Placing his arms before his face as if warding off a blow, he
moaned:

“Please don’t throw me off, Judson. I’ll only hold to the edge.
Don’t--don’t! Have mercy! I--I--don’t want to die. Mercy! mercy!”




CHAPTER XVII.

A WELCOME FIND.


“Judson Greene, what is the meaning of this?”

Stern and accusing Clif faced the boy cowering at the bottom of the
launch. Judson’s face was white and he showed every evidence of guilt.

“What do you mean?” he stammered. “I don’t know what the little fool is
talking about.”

“You tell lie,” broke in Trolley, hotly. “You try do something to that
boy. You beat him.”

“Worse than that,” added Joy, equally angry. “Look at the poor kid’s
face. I’ll bet anything Greene tried to throw him off the spar to make
more room for his own worthless carcass.”

Judson maintained a sullen silence. Clif fell to soothing Nanny and
soon had him more composed.

When the youngster at last realized the truth, and saw that he was
surrounded by friends, and one of those friends Clif Faraday, he cried
for very joy.

“Oh, Clif, I can’t believe it’s true,” he sobbed. “It must be a dream,
and I will wake up and--and----”

“And you will find that it’s the finest dream you ever had, youngster,”
laughed Clif, cheerily. “You are all right, Nanny,” he added. “You
haven’t gone to Davy Jones’ locker yet. But tell us how you happened to
get on that spar, you and Greene.”

Nanny glanced at Judson and shuddered. The latter slyly threatened him
with his clinched right fist, but the action did not escape Faraday’s
eye.

Pouncing upon Greene he grasped him by the collar and jerked him to his
feet. Then forcing him against the gunwale he cried, savagely:

“If I see you do that again I’ll heave you overboard, you miserable
scamp. You have been ill treating Nanny and I’ll have the truth of it.”

“Pitch him to the sharks,” exclaimed Joy, also laying violent hands
upon the shrinking lad.

Judson was badly frightened.

“I--I--didn’t do anything to him, Faraday,” he cried, struggling to
free himself.

“Yes, you did, too,” spoke up Nanny. “When I tried to get on that spar
last night, you struck and kicked me in the face, and did your best to
make me let go. And you only stopped because you fell into the water.
Then I helped you out.”

“We throw him overboard for that,” exclaimed Trolley, fiercely. “He no
right to live.”

He advanced upon Judson so menacingly that the fellow fairly bellowed
for help.

“I’ll do anything if you spare my life,” he moaned. “Oh, Faraday, don’t
kill me. I’ll be your servant and----”

“Shut up,” roughly interrupted Clif. “We can’t execute you, you fool.
This is no time or place for heroics. None of us may live another day.”

Judson crept whimpering to the bow of the launch and lay there huddled
in a heap.

Clif glanced curiously at the fragment of spar, which was still bobbing
and tossing alongside.

“It’s not part of the _Monongahela_,” he said. “It’s from some wrecked
merchantman. What a lucky thing it happened along as it did.”

“That’s true,” agreed Nanny, earnestly. “When the collision happened I
thought I was a goner. I floundered about and was almost drowned when
I bumped against that spar.”

“There is one queer thing about it,” said Joy, reflectively. “How is it
we came across it when we have been sailing before a gale for several
hours?”

“There’s an explanation for that, chum,” replied Clif. “The wind
shifted and we followed it. I remember distinctly having to put the
launch almost about last night.”

“We go now and see if that thing is capsized ship or dead whale,” spoke
up Trolley, pointing to where the first object sighted by the boys was
still pitching sluggishly upon the long swell.

“It will not be much help to us, but we might as well sail over and
see what it is,” consented Clif, grasping the steering oar. “Shake the
reefs out and set all canvas. Judson, do something for your passage.
Haul taut that forward stay.”

While the others were at work Clif stood up in the stern of the launch
and made a careful survey of the horizon.

The sun was now fairly on its way toward the zenith, and the whole
expanse of ocean was bathed in a flood of light. Overhead a cloudless
sky spread from horizon to horizon in one glorious canopy of blue.

It was all very beautiful, but the lad turned away with a sigh. He
instinctively felt that the others looked up to him as a leader, and
the responsibility weighed heavily upon him.

That the practice ship had been driven to a considerable distance by
the gale was evident. That Captain Brookes would return and institute
a thorough search for the lost boat was equally evident. But what
hope was there that the launch--a microscopical dot on the infinite
ocean--would be found?

And if the _Monongahela_ did not turn up, what then?

There was not an ounce of food in the boat nor a drop of fresh water.
The stores with which all man-of-war crafts are supplied, had been lost
during the collision.

Clif looked toward the bow. It was shattered in the upper part and the
timbers were slightly strained. The launch was fairly seaworthy still,
but could it survive another gale?

Clif’s face was very grave as he turned his attention inboard again.
The sail was set and everything ready for proceeding onward. A course
was shaped for the distant object.

Clif glanced listlessly at it. He felt assured that it would prove to
be either a capsized hull--a grim relic of some ocean tragedy--or a
dead whale.

“We won’t lose much time in investigating,” he said to Trolley, who had
come aft. “If it turns out to be what we expect, we’ll make tracks for
the coast of Portugal.”

Half an hour later they were within fair sight of the object. As they
neared it the five boys began to show signs of surprise and eager
curiosity.

“Surely that isn’t the bottom of a ship,” said Joy.

“And him no whale, either,” chimed in Trolley.

“What’s that thing sticking up a little aft of midships?” queried
Nanny, excitedly.

“By gum, it looks like a broken smokestack or funnel.”

“The thing is iron or steel,” cried Judson, crawling aft. “See how the
sides glisten.”

Clif said nothing, but the expression upon his handsome face indicated
his lively interest. Carefully handling the steering oar he brought the
launch around within a dozen yards of the tossing object.

And then a simultaneous cry of amazement burst from the cadets.

“Great Scott!” added Clif. “It’s a torpedo boat and it has been
abandoned at sea!”

To Clif this remarkable discovery was welcome indeed.

He saw at once that the craft must be seaworthy, else it would not have
survived the gale. It was far better than the open sailing launch,
and a transfer to its comparatively roomy interior would certainly be
appreciated.

Then again, there might be food and water on board, and the lack of
those necessary articles was a subject of much anxiety to the youthful
leader.

“Stand by to grasp that ringbolt, Joy,” he called out from his position
at the steering oar.

The cadet he addressed leaned out from the bow of the launch in
readiness to obey the order.

The other occupants busied themselves in lowering the sail and in
assisting Joy to bring the boat alongside the strange derelict.

As the launch slipped alongside the torpedo boat, Joy cleverly caught
the ringbolt and thrust the end of the painter through it. The sail was
lowered, then all hands scrambled up the sloping side of the craft.

The iron surface was rusty and tarnished by wind and weather, but a
bright spot of paint here and there gave evidence that the derelict
could not have been long abandoned.

The deck sounded hollow under the footsteps of the boys, and the water
lapped against the cylindrical hull with a strange weird sound not
altogether pleasant.

The little door leading into the forward conning tower was tightly
closed, as was also that giving entrance to the after tower.

At intervals along the deck were hatches all hermetically sealed. Clif
and his companions were puzzled.

“I don’t understand this,” murmured the former. “If the crew was
compelled to leave, why did they close all the doors and hatches?”

“There’s some mystery about it,” said Joy, shaking his head doubtfully.

“Maybe crew all dead below,” suggested Trolley.

“Ow-w! Let’s go back to the launch!” cried Nanny, eying the conning
tower apprehensively. “I don’t want to be where there are lots of dead
men.”

“Nonsense! it wouldn’t make any difference if the craft was loaded with
them,” replied Clif. “We can throw them overboard, can’t we? Now that
the _Monongahela_ has apparently abandoned us to our fate”--he glanced
at the distant horizon--“we’ve got to make the best of things. We must
find something to eat----”

Trolley rubbed his stomach yearningly.

“And some water----”

Judson wet his parched lips with his tongue.

“And also a better and more seaworthy craft than the launch.”

“But we can sail the launch,” remarked Joy.

“That’s true enough, and we may do it after all, but now we must see
about food and water.”

Clif advanced to the forward conning tower and tried the door. It
resisted his efforts. He examined the edge carefully, and ran his
finger along the crack.

“I don’t believe it is locked inside,” he concluded. “Perhaps it has
been slammed violently and jammed. I’ll just----”

He sprang back in alarm. A hollow moaning cry came from forward. It
ended abruptly in a gurgle like that of a man in his last moments.

Little Nanny gave a gasp and moved toward the sailing launch, which was
still fastened alongside.

“Wh-wh-what was that?” he chattered.

“Somebody is down there,” exclaimed Joy, “and he needs help.”

“We go see,” said Trolley, quietly. “We break open door.”

“We’ll make a few inquiries first,” said Clif.

Stamping upon the steel deck, he bawled lustily:

“Below there! Ahoy the ’tween decks!”

The quintet waited expectantly, but the stillness remained unbroken.
Clif repeated the hail, and Joy pounded the deck with the oar from the
launch, but with the same result.

“I guess we imagined it,” said Nanny, evidently relieved. “It
wasn’t--wow!”

He ended with a cry of dismay. The moan again sounded forward, ending,
as before, with the unearthly gurgle.

Trolley darted past the conning tower, and, throwing himself flat upon
the sloping deck, leaned out over the bow. He had hardly taken his
position when the torpedo boat pitched sullenly into the trough of the
sea, and the uncanny noise was repeated.

The Japanese youth returned aft with a grin upon his face.

“We plenty fools,” he said. “That moan no come from man, it caused by
waves under bow. The cutwater is bent, and sea slap into it. Hurray!”

“That’s a jolly sell on us,” laughed Clif. “We are a lot of old women,
getting scared at the slightest noise. Come on; give me a hand with
this door. We can’t wait on deck all day. I want to see if there are
any stores on board. Nanny, are you hungry?”

The little cadet hastened to answer in the affirmative.

“Then I’ll get you to crawl down one of those broken funnels if we
can’t get in this way,” continued Clif, winking at Joy.

“Oo! I wish we were on the _Monongahela_,” complained Nanny, not at all
pleased at the prospect. “I don’t want to go down the funnel.”

“You are a big baby,” sneered Judson Greene.

“We may give you a chance to prove that you are full-grown,” said Clif,
coldly. “You are not too large for the funnel.”

“I am not afraid,” retorted Judson, walking aft.

A combined onslaught was made on the conning tower door. At first it
resisted the efforts of the four boys, but finally, after Trolley had
pounded the edges with the oar handle, it yielded slightly.

“All together now,” said Clif, bracing his feet against the curved side
of the conning tower. “One! two--three, pull!”

The four cadets tugged sharply on the rope that had been passed through
the handle, there was a complaining of strained hinges, then the door
flew back with a crash.

And out through the opening tumbled the body of a man, half-clothed and
ghastly in death!




CHAPTER XVIII.

JUDSON GREENE’S TREACHERY.


For one moment the five cadets stared in horror at the body, then with
one accord they broke for the launch. As they did so the torpedo boat
lurched abruptly to one side, tossed by a wave, and the dead man slid
gently after them.

As it rolled over on reaching the curve it was brought up against
Judson’s legs. With a shriek of horror the lad sprang into the sea.

The splash was almost instantly followed by a second. The dead man had
rolled after him.

Clif quickly regained his senses.

“Throw us a rope!” he cried, hurriedly, then over he went in a neat
dive that placed him within reach of Judson as he bobbed into sight.

The two were speedily hauled on board. Judson cowered on deck,
completely unstrung. Clif was still pale, but he had recovered his
usual composure.

“Whew! excuse me,” he said, wringing the water from his blouse. “I
don’t want any more scares like that. My teeth are chattering yet. Can
you see any--anything of it, Trolley?”

The Japanese youth turned back from where he had been gazing into the
sea. His swarthy face was a shade lighter, and he shook as if from cold.

“I no see him, Clif,” he replied. “And I no want to any more. By Jim! I
no think him in there.”

“It has gone down,” reported Joy, grimly.

“Maybe there are more inside,” wailed Nanny. “Let’s go back to the
launch. I’d rather starve than stay on this spooky old thing.”

Clif laughed in his old, merry way.

“We are children, every one of us,” he said, lightly. “Fancy being
afraid of a dead man. Come; we’ll resume our investigating.”

“You don’t g-g-get me to leave th-this deck,” chattered Judson. “I know
when I--I have had enough.”

He moved toward the launch as he spoke.

“Where are you going?” asked Clif.

“Into the boat.”

“If you do, I’ll cut the painter and let you slide,” continued Faraday.
“What a coward you are!”

Judson grumbled something, but he remained on board the torpedo boat.
He knew that Clif would keep his word.

“We’ll tackle it again, fellows,” announced that youth, cheerily.
“If there are any more dead men below we will give them a decent sea
burial.”

“Nanny,” he added, “suppose you inspect the after part while we----”

“Not on your life,” hastily interrupted the little lad. “I go where you
do.”

“Well, come ahead, then,” laughed Clif, leading the way to the open
door of the conning tower.

He paused before leaving the deck and cast a glance around the horizon.
There was nothing in sight. With a sigh he stepped over the threshold.

The interior of the conning tower was fitted up with the usual objects
found in such places. There was a steam steering wheel, a set of
electric calls, a compass and a number of loose articles scattered
about the deck.

At one side was an iron ladder leading forward into the officer’s
quarters. Looking down this Clif saw that the apartment was empty.
The deck was littered with broken chairs, clothing and a riffraff of
articles. Everywhere were signs of disorder and wreck.

“I believe I understand matters now,” said Clif, slowly.

“For goodness’ sake, tell us!” exclaimed Nanny.

“I think something must have happened on board this boat to frighten
the crew, and they abandoned it in a desperate hurry.”

“But that dead man?” said Joy.

“He was caught in the conning tower by the slamming of the door, and
was left behind.”

“But what kill him?” spoke up Trolley. “This boat no been long
abandoned, and he no die by starvation.”

Clif laughed.

“You stump me, Trolley,” he confessed. “I guess we are no nearer the
solution than before. We’ll have to search further for clews.”

“And grub,” put in Nanny.

“Yes, and grub.”

Clif led the way into the officers’ mess-room, which was at the foot of
the iron ladder. Picking up a coat, he examined it critically.

“We haven’t thought about the nationality of this craft,” he said. “I
do not believe it is an American or English torpedo boat.”

“I guess you are right,” called out Joy, holding up a bundle of
periodicals. “These are certainly not English.”

Clif took them from his hand and glanced at the first.

“It’s a French newspaper,” he announced. “And the others are also
French.”

“Here’s a book on navigation in the same language,” spoke up Nanny from
one corner of the apartment.

“This settle it,” cried Trolley, triumphantly waving a tricolored flag
he had found in an open drawer. “This is French torpedo----”

Bang!

The boys started and exchanged glances of consternation. The sharp
clang of an iron door closing violently came from aft.

Nanny made a leap for the short flight of stairs leading to the deck
and disappeared before Clif could stop him.

“What----” began Joy.

Before he could finish the sentence a loud cry came from above and
Nanny reappeared in the opening. He was greatly excited.

“Come on deck!” he gasped, swinging his arms. “Quick! there’s a ship in
sight, and Judson has stolen the launch to go to it!”

The three cadets dashed through the conning tower, and on reaching the
upper deck saw instantly that Nanny had spoken the truth.

Just barely visible above the rim of the sea off the port beam were the
upper topsails of a ship. And standing away toward it was the sailing
launch with Judson in the stern.

“Oh, the miserable villain!” cried Clif, shaking his fist after the
recreant lad.

“Hi! come back you----” Trolley ended with a string of Japanese
expletives.

The launch was not too far distant for Judson to hear, but he paid no
heed.

“If I have gun I make him come back,” said Trolley, savagely. “Some day
I beat him head off.”

Clif remained silent. Leaning against the conning tower he watched the
launch skim over the dancing waves. But there was an expression upon
his handsome face that bodied ill for the traitor.

In the excitement of the moment the mysterious slamming of the door
below had been forgotten, but it soon recurred to Clif.

“We’ve got to find out what’s aft,” he said, after a pause. “Nanny, you
remain on deck and keep watch while Trolley, Joy and I go below.”

“Do you think it’s the old _Monongahela_?” asked the lanky plebe,
staring at the distant sail.

“Hard to say. It may be. I wish we could make some kind of a signal.”

“Why not start a smoke?” suggested Nanny, brightly. “We can make a fire
on this iron deck and----”

“We’ll do it in the furnaces,” hastily interrupted Clif. “It’s a good
idea.”

He ran along the sloping top of the torpedo boat and was soon tugging
away at the door of the after conning tower. He knew from previous
study on the subject that crafts of that class have the crew’s quarters
in the stern.

The hull is too narrow for passage from one end to the other, and all
communications must necessarily be made by way of the upper deck. The
mysterious noise had come from this part of the craft, Clif reasoned,
so if there were any one on board they would be found in the after
apartments.

The combined efforts of the three boys finally sprung the door open. As
it yielded they hastily jumped aside. Their experience with one dead
man was sufficient.

“I guess the supply has run short,” said Clif, grimly, as he peered
into the circular room.

“Everything looks shipshape down there,” remarked Joy, pointing to
where a glimpse of the lower interior could be seen. “Come on.”

He made one step over the threshold, then he stopped with a gasp. From
some spot below came a weird, shrill voice.

“_Au secours! au secours!_” it said. “_J’ai faim. Au secours!_”

Joy hastily sprang back. His face had paled and his hands trembled as
he pointed behind him.

“There’s a man below there,” he cried. “Did you hear that?”

“I heard him,” replied Clif, eagerly. “It’s a Frenchman, sure enough.
He is calling for help.”

Leaping past his companions, he disappeared down the ladder leading to
the lower deck. Joy and Trolley tumbled after him.

They found themselves in a much larger apartment than that forward.
It was not furnished so comfortably, containing only a few benches, a
swinging table and half a dozen hammocks.

A pile of broken crockery occupied one corner, and swinging from hooks
were several pans, and strings of tin cups.

Forward of the larger apartment was another, also containing hammocks.
In this latter room were several chests, one being marked with a name
in black letters. It was evidently the name of the torpedo boat. It ran:


     “_Le Destructeur_,”


and after it was the word “Havre.”

“That settles the nationality,” said Clif.

He peered about the apartments, but nowhere could he see a man or
anything resembling a man. The voice had surely come from this part of
the ship.

“Hello! hello!” called out Joy, stamping his foot. “_Qui, qui, monseer,
avec vous_ in here anywhere?”

Clif was compelled to smile at the lanky cadet’s attempt at French. He
had studied it at home himself sufficiently to read and understand, but
he could not speak it correctly.

“This is certainly strange,” he said, poking behind the chests. “Where
in the deuce is the fellow?”

“Maybe he in fire-room,” suggested Trolley.

“That’s so. Let me see, the only way to get in there is by way of the
hatch on deck. We’ll try it.”

After another thorough search the three boys started to ascend the
ladder. Just as Clif, who was last, reached the conning tower, a
shrill, queer voice broke out behind him:


     “C’est epatant qu’en Angleterre.
     Y’ait des Anglais.”


It was a snatch of a recent popular Parisian air!

The cadets stood as if turned to stone. The voice came from almost
directly under their feet. And the tone! And the words!

Clif felt his hair tingle, and a cold shiver run down his back. It was
uncanny, to say the least.

Trolley, ordinarily jolly, had an expression much like that of a man
who had met a ghost in a dark wood. And Joy was not a whit better.

“Guess the d-d-darned thing’s too much for me,” he said, shakily.
“Suppose we go on deck and th-think it over?”

“Not much,” replied Clif, but with no great emphasis. “There’s a man
down there somewhere, either sick or crazy, and it’s our duty to find
him.”

“Where in thunder is he? We’ve searched the confounded place from deck
to ceiling.”

“He not in fire-room,” said Trolley.

“No. That voice----”

“_De l’eau! de l’eau! de l’eau!_”

The words floated up the opening as plainly as words can be spoken. But
this time they seemed to come from the after end of the crew’s quarters.

Clif sprang down the ladder at great risk to his neck.

When the others followed they found him tumbling the hammocks about.

Trolley and Joy assisted him, but the three had only their labor for
their pains. Not a sign of the mysterious stranger could they find.

“You fellows can do as you please,” suddenly announced Joy, “but this
child is going on deck. Excuse me; I don’t want any French shades in
mine. The old tank is--oh, lud!”

He broke for the ladder and scrambled from sight. From almost over his
head had come a groan.

This time Clif was thoroughly startled. The place, the circumstances
and the voice was too much for him, and he hastened after Joy with
Trolley a close third.

On reaching the deck they found the lanky cadet leaning against the
conning tower and looking rather foolish. He evaded their gaze and
pointed astern.

The action of the waves had brought the distant sail in that direction.

Clif gave an exclamation of keen disappointment.

“She’s passing!” he said. “She’s much further away. We must do
something if we want to attract her attention.”

He paused only to see that the sailing launch was still in view, then
he began to tug away at the iron hatch leading to the after fire-room.
It required considerable effort to open it, but the iron hatch yielded
at last, revealing a perpendicular ladder leading into a dark space
below.

Clif’s anxiety to start a signal caused him to forget his previous
fears. With a cheery “come on, fellows,” he dropped down the ladder.

It was the after of the two fire-rooms with which _Le Destructeur_ was
provided. The small furnace--small in comparison with the general run
of men-of-war furnaces--occupied the greater part of the compartment.

The fire-box door swung open, clanging back and forth with each roll
of the hull. Scattered about were heaps of coal and ashes. Over in one
corner was a pile of oily waste.

Seizing an armful, Clif thrust it into the fire-box, then he began
to search his pockets. He looked up with a laugh as Trolley and Joy
descended the ladder.

“If you want to see a first-class chump, just look at me,” he said.

“What’s up?” asked Joy.

“Been looking for matches in a pocket that’s soaked with salt water. We
must have something to light this fire with. Joy, run down aft and see
if you can find a match.”

“Excuse me,” hastily objected the lanky cadet. “Send Trolley.”

“Not much,” exclaimed that youth. “I no like French ghosts.”

“Then I’ll go myself,” replied Clif, moving toward the ladder.

“I say,” interrupted Joy, stopping him. “Why not send Nanny? The kid
didn’t hear the voice. Perhaps he’ll solve the mystery.”

Clif chuckled.

“We’ll try it,” he decided, and forthwith began to shout for the
youngster.

Presently Nanny’s head and shoulders darkened the opening.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Where is the ship now?”

“Almost disappeared. Can just see a smudge.”

“And the launch?”

“Judson is still sailing in that direction.”

“I say, Nanny,” said Clif, sweetly, “just drop down into the crew’s
quarters and see if you can find a match. I want to start a smoke.
Hurry, that’s a good fellow. We haven’t any time to lose.”

Nanny vanished. The boys exchanged grins, and awaited results.

“If he survives the shock he’ll be an invalid for a week,” chuckled Joy.

“I am rather sorry I sent him,” said Clif, regretfully. “He’s such a
timid little chap that it may----”

A shrill yell interrupted him, then came a distant rattling and
banging, then another wild shriek.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE MYSTERY SOLVED.


The three middies raced to the upper deck just in time to see Nanny,
white-faced and trembling, emerge from the after conning tower.

“Murder! help! help!” he wailed. “Oh, Clif, some one is down there. I
heard a voice singing. Oh, let’s go away.”

“What is the matter?” demanded Joy, striving hard to conceal a laugh.
“What in thunder did you see?”

“N-nothing, but I heard a cracked kind of a voice,” whimpered the
little lad, almost in tears. “It--it seemed to come from the roof. Oh,
the old tub is haunted! Let’s leave.”

“Never mind, youngster,” said Clif, kindly. “We heard the voice, too.
There’s some mystery about it, but it isn’t ghosts. That’s silly. Did
you get the matches?”

Nanny shook his head vigorously. Trolley went forward and presently
returned with a box he found in the captain’s cabin. Five minutes
later a dense smoke was pouring from the after funnel.

“I am afraid it is too late,” remarked Clif, watching the distant speck
on the horizon. “That craft is bound south, and we are way to the
eastward of her.”

“There is one thing we forgot when we were down aft,” suddenly observed
Joy, placing one hand in the region of his fifth button. “We clean
forgot the grub.”

“That’s true,” agreed Trolley.

“I won’t go down there if I starve,” came from Nanny, his face paling.

“We will have to do something,” said Clif, decisively. “There must be
food on board, and water, too. I saw several boxes and tanks below. I
don’t like the shades of departed Frenchmen, but I’ll do a great deal
to keep from starving.”

“Suppose we go down and make plenty noise,” suggested Trolley. “We take
clubs and--wait a bit.”

He hurried forward, and presently reappeared from the officers’
quarters with one hand clutching a pistol and the other a long,
wicked-looking sword. Flourishing the latter, he cried:

“I cut the neck of any ghost now. Come! we march down right away.”

“He! he!” laughed Nanny; “Trolley, you have a different class of ghosts
in Japan than those in other countries, I guess. Swords and guns are no
good.”

“We try, anyway,” placidly replied the Japanese youth. “Who come with
me?”

“All of us,” promptly announced Clif.

“Who go first?” was Trolley’s next question.

“You, confound your thick head!” retorted Joy. “Haven’t you got the
weapons?”

Seeing no loophole, the Jap gingerly approached the door of the conning
tower. Clif, who was close behind, suddenly uttered a deep groan.

Trolley dropped the sword and made a wild leap backward. A series of
weird Japanese expletives came from his lips, then his jaw dropped when
he caught sight of Clif’s laughing face.

“Oh, you fool me, eh?” he said, slowly. “Well, I go down and fool
ghost.”

With that he vanished through the open door of the conning tower.

“We can’t let him have all the fun,” declared Clif. “Come on.”

When the three--Nanny accompanied them--reached the lower deck they
found Trolley seated upon a chest, calmly surveying the field. He held
the revolver in one hand, and the sword at a parry in the other.

“No hear anything yet,” he said, grinning. “I guess----”

“Jose! Jose!”

“Gosh! there it is again,” ejaculated Nanny. “Let’s go back. I don’t
want----”

“_Jose! tengo hombre! Dame un galleta._”

The words ended in a wail that sent cold chills through the cadets. For
a moment it was in the minds of all to beat a hasty retreat, but Clif
set his teeth, and said, determinedly:

“I won’t be frightened away from here again. Some one is playing us a
scurvy trick. That wasn’t French; it was Spanish. If any chump----”

“_Ach, du lieber!_”

Clif sat down upon a pile of hammocks and held up both hands in
disgust.

“And German, too!” he exclaimed. “Now what on earth does it mean? Where
is the fellow, anyway?”

Joy was hungrily overhauling a locker which seemed filled with
inviting-looking cans and jars.

“Don’t ask any foolish questions,” he said. “Here’s potted meats and
jams and ship biscuit. Nanny, you half-sized idiot, get some water out
of that breaker, and be durned quick about it.”

It was well on toward noon, and the boys were beginning to feel the
gnawing of their naturally healthy appetites. They were also growing
accustomed to the mysterious voice, so without more ado they joined Joy
in his onslaught on the contents of the locker.

They were not disturbed while they attended to the pleasant business
before them, so they made out fairly well.

“For this make us truly thankful,” said Joy, with a satisfied sigh as
he polished off the last morsel before him.

“I say,” spoke up Nanny, “we’re better off than that cad, Judson
Greene, even if we have a polyglot ghost in our midst.”

“Judson is bound to return,” said Clif, grimly. “When he does we’ll
have a reckoning.”

Trolley lazily threw himself back upon a bench and observed:

“What we do now, fellows? We no can stay out here. Maybe ship no come.”

“What do you propose, your highness?” asked Joy, with fine sarcasm.
“Shall we walk or take a cake of soap and wash ourselves ashore?”

“It’s a pity we can’t carry _Le Destructeur_ into some port,” said
Clif, musingly. “She seems to be seaworthy, and I guess the coal supply
is all right.”

Trolley sat up and brought his hands together with an emphatic gesture.

“We do it; we do it,” he cried, excitedly. “I know how to run marine
engine. I learn a little in Japan. Hurray! you be captain, and I be
engineer. Hurray!”

Clif stared at him for a moment, then his face brightened.

“By George, Trolley, that’s the very ticket,” he exclaimed. “If you can
run an engine we’ll take the old tank into the nearest port. There are
charts and instruments in the captain’s cabin. And there are four of
us--five if that chump comes back--and we ought to do it.”

Clif began to pace up and down the narrow room. That he was greatly
taken with the idea was plainly evident. Suddenly while he chanced to
be near the extreme after end, the mysterious voice wailed:

“_Ach, du lieber! Carramba! Dame agua pronto!_”

With a bound Clif reached the spot whence the sound seemed to come. He
grasped the knob of a small trap-door in the wooden lining of the hull,
and gave a quick wrench.

Something fluttered out and fell to the floor with a flapping of wings.

It was a parrot!

“Ha! ha! ha!”

“Ho! ho! This is rich!”

“Ha! ha! If I d-don’t stop laughing I’ll die!” gasped Clif. “Fancy
being--ha! ha!--fooled by a pet parrot.”

The four boys were rolling upon the floor in an ecstasy of mirth. And
over in the corner, eying them solemnly, was the parrot.

The poor bird was thin and its feathers hung down in a bedraggled
manner. It looked as if it had undergone a siege with a cage full of
monkeys.

“He! he!” it suddenly cackled. “_Povre Juanito! Tengo sed. Ach, du
lieber! Sacre!_”

Clif moistened several sea biscuit in water and fed the starved bird.
Then the boys enjoyed another fit of laughing and went on deck.

Their relief was manifest. The discovery of the parrot, which had
evidently been shut in by accident, explained a great deal, and it
drove away all uncanny suspicions.

After a brief consultation it was decided that Clif should act as
captain and steersman, Trolley as engineer, and Joy and Nanny as
firemen.

“If Judson turns up,” said Clif, glancing at the distant speck which
represented the launch, “we’ll make him shovel coal all night.”

Trolley hurried below into the after engine-room to overhaul the
machinery, while the three others prepared to start fires.

Blouses were stripped off and the trio fell to work with a will. The
oily waste lighted before had died out, but another fire was soon
ignited, and within half an hour the furnace was roaring.

Presently Trolley, greasy and black, joined them. There was a satisfied
smile on his face.

“I find everything shipshape,” he said. “The engine in fine condition.”

He glanced at the steam gauge and added:

“Hurray! we soon be ready to start. You better look up charts and
things, Clif.”

Faraday thought the advice good, so he hurried to the conning tower.
He found the compass in its usual place; and stowed away in a little
locker were two sextants and a chronometer.

The latter had stopped, however, and it was useless to him. A log-book
written in French, bore as the last date the tenth of June. The
observation for that noon was a degree of longitude near the coast of
France.

“The boat has been driven to sea by some severe gale,” he reasoned.
“That’s plain enough. But why did the crew leave her so abruptly, and
what killed that man in the conning tower?”

These thoughts occupied his mind as he rummaged about the little
apartment. He was in search of a chart. Finding none, he descended to
the room used as the officers’ mess. Forward of this was the captain’s
cabin, and directly aft the stateroom occupied by the other officer,
who, on vessels of the _Le Destructeur_ class, does duty both on deck
and in the engine-room.

Noticing a heap of _débris_ in the center consisting of clothing,
bedding and riffraff of every description, Clif raked it aside.

To his surprise, he saw undeniable traces of fire. The flooring was
eaten away or charred, and a hole gaped beneath his feet. Upon part of
a wooden hatch was stamped a word which sent a flood of light through
the lad. It was:


     “_Magasin._”


“The magazine!” Clif exclaimed, aloud. “It is where they kept the
torpedo charges. And it has been on fire! Gorry! no wonder they fled.”

It was plain enough now. The boat had caught fire while at sea. An
attempt had been made to extinguish the flames, but without success.

The dread belief that the flames would reach the powder and gun cotton
had sent the crew away in a panic.

And the dead man?

“There is only one explanation,” muttered Clif. “He was caught in the
conning tower by the jamming of the door, and the fright killed him.
Gorry! no wonder. Waiting for a ton of gun cotton to explode under
one’s feet is enough to kill anybody.”

That the fire did not reach the explosives was evident. The rolling
and pitching of the boat had probably tossed a lot of dunnage upon the
flames and extinguished them.

Clif hastened forward to acquaint his companions with the discovery. He
found the steam whistling merrily from the exhaust pipes. Trolley was
trying the engine, and the other two were still feeding the furnace.

Clif’s explanations were received with wonder. Nanny anxiously inquired
if the fire was really out and, on being assured that it was, he
returned to his task of shoveling.

Twenty minutes later the Japanese youth announced with a triumphant
blast of the whistle that all was in readiness for a start.

Clif had succeeded in finding a book of charts. After careful figuring,
he decided on a course. It was more or less guesswork, but he believed
that he could at least take _Le Destructeur_ into the path of vessels
bound to the Mediterranean.

Taking his place at the wheel, the young captain signaled the
engine-room. Trolley responded gallantly, and the torpedo boat’s screw
began to revolve.

An enthusiastic cheer came from the fire-room force which had hastened
to the upper deck to see the start.

Clif found the steering rather difficult at first, but he soon learned
the wheel and brought the bow around toward the speck on the distant
horizon which represented the launch.

“We can’t leave Judson out here even if he is a double-dyed-in-the-wool
traitor,” he announced.

When the launch was brought within plain view it was seen that Greene
had tacked, and it was evident he wished to regain the torpedo boat.

It did not take long to bring him alongside. He glanced sheepishly at
the occupants of the deck when he finally crawled aboard.

The engines had been stopped and the four cadets were prepared to meet
him.

Clif had his blouse off and his sleeves rolled up. Stepping forward, he
said, peremptorily:

“Shed that blouse of yours, Greene.”

“What for?” demanded Judson, in evident alarm.

“You’ve got to whip me or take the worst hiding you ever received. Off
with it. I’ll sail in, in about five seconds.”

“But----”

“Off with it.”

Judson sullenly obeyed, and stood on the defensive. Clif proceeded to
business at once, and the two were soon dealing blows right and left.
The other cadets looked on with grins of delight.

Clif had not only might but right on his side, and in a very short
period Judson was crying “enough.” Then Trolley whacked him several
times, and Joy added his share. To wind up the punishment, little Nanny
administered a few well-directed kicks.

“Now, sir,” said Clif, sternly, “just thank your lucky stars that we
didn’t leave you to the sharks. Go below and get something to eat.”

The engine was kept going until midnight, then as the boys were tired
out, the fires were banked and watches arranged.

At daybreak little Nanny, who had the last tour of duty, espied a sail
off the starboard bow.

He aroused the others, and steam was started at once. In time it became
apparent to the excited boys that there was something familiar about
the outlines of the ship.

“Hurray! hurray! it is the old _Monongahela_,” shouted Trolley, at
last. “She come to look for us. Hurray!”

“I don’t think it is anything to cheer about,” sighed Joy, gloomily.
“Ain’t we all right aboard here? Huh! now we’ll be plebes again, when
we’ve been captains, and engineers, and--and coal heavers. I think it’s
a shame.”

The rest rather agreed with him, nevertheless they were glad to see the
practice ship.

When it became known on board the _Monongahela_ who the occupants of
the torpedo boat were the wildest excitement ensued.

A boat was lowered and the castaways--not forgetting the parrot--were
carried back in triumph.

Clif and his companions were the heroes of the hour, and they were
received with special distinction on the quarter-deck. They were
delighted to learn that the other boats had been picked up and no
lives lost in the catastrophe.

The torpedo boat was manned by a picked crew from the _Monongahela_ and
convoyed by that vessel to the mouth of the Tagus River.

The French Government was advised at once and word presently came that
_Le Destructeur’s_ former crew had been long since rescued.

By the time the _Monongahela_ was ready to proceed up the Tagus to
Lisbon, the capital of Portugal, a French gunboat was on hand to tow
the torpedo boat back to Havre.

And so ended Clif’s first command.




CHAPTER XX.

DIVING FOR REWARDS.


“There goes the little beggar again!”

“What a clean dive!”

“Yes; he is grace itself. But say, Clif----”

“He’s got it. Hurray! He catch dime plenty well. Hi! here another.”

“You are getting mighty liberal with your money, Trolley.”

“I no care. It worth dollar to see diving like that. Hi! you little
boy, here some more.”

The group of naval cadets were leaning over the port railing on the
forecastle of _Monongahela_.

It was shortly after quarters on a Saturday morning, and the trim old
frigate was riding easily at anchor in the Tagus River just off the
main landing dock of Lisbon, Portugal.

After a truly eventful voyage from Annapolis she had finally arrived in
port, and the one hundred and sixty odd cadets on board were waiting
eagerly for the time when they could have a run ashore.

The necessary formalities of port inspection had been gone through
with, and the ship was in a gala attire aloft and alow in anticipation
of the visit always paid an American vessel by the youth and beauty of
quaint old Lisbon.

Boats filled with merry parties were coming from the dock even now, and
the appearance of many pretty girls in them was beginning to take the
cadets’ attention away from a previous attraction.

That attraction was the diving of a number of native boys after coins
thrown from the ship. Alongside were half a dozen small and rickety
boats occupied by the agile young divers.

They were continually importuning the cadets to toss bits of silver or
copper money into the water.

One, a lithe, clean-limbed lad of about sixteen, was the leader of
the party, and it was his clever diving which had wrung the words of
admiration from Trolley, given at the commencement of this chapter.

The diversion of watching the divers began to grow monotonous after a
while.

“The little beggars are pretty good, but their act palls on one,”
yawned Toggles, stretching his arms.

“Did you hear anything about the liberty list, Clif?” asked Grat
Wallace, with a yearning glance ashore.

“It isn’t made up yet, I believe. We won’t touch the dock until
afternoon anyway.”

“And we have got to be back by ten o’clock,” grumbled Nanny.

“Always kicking, always finding trouble,” sighed Joy, with a doleful
shake of the head. “Why can’t you be peaceable and contented like me,
youngster? It’s painful to a man of meek and lowly spirit to see such
contention and strife. If you don’t like the way they conduct liberty
on this ship, why don’t you knock the blooming head off the executive
officer? Act with due humility and beat the face off the captain.”

The others laughed. They understood Joy.

“I say, Clif, look there,” suddenly spoke up Trolley. “Here comes what
you call peach.”

He nodded his head toward a couple of young ladies who were approaching
from aft. They had formed part of a visiting party from shore and were
strolling about the deck intent on inspecting the ship after their own
fashion.

Both were very pretty, but one, a tall and rather willowy brunette,
was particularly handsome. A wealth of lustrous black hair fell to
her shoulders; her eyes were large and sparkling, and her lips, half
parted, showed two rows of regular, pearly teeth.

She was smiling at something her companion had said as they neared the
group of plebes, and the boys fairly gasped at her loveliness.

Clif eyed her furtively, his heart beating more rapidly than usual. His
expressive countenance proclaimed his strong admiration, and that must
have been the reason why the beautiful girl blushed slightly as she met
his ardent gaze.

The girls stopped at the forecastle railing and looked over at the
diver boys below.

They laughed, and one--the lovelier of the two--held up a small coin.

All the youthful divers prepared to spring into the water as soon as
the bit of money left her hand. The lithe young leader poised himself
upon the very edge of his boat.

“Ready!” called out the girl in Portuguese. “It is a hundred _reis_
piece, so do your best.”

She gleefully waved her hand back and forth, then, just as she was
about to release the coin, something bright and glittering slipped from
her wrist and fell into the water.

It was a bracelet.

A little scream came from the girl, there was a commotion among the
group of plebes, then one was seen to vault lightly over the rail and
strike the water in a neat dive.

It was Clif!

In an instant there was great excitement on board the practice ship.
The loud splash was heard fore and aft, and a rush was made for that
side.

Some one raised a cry of “Man overboard!”

The officer of the deck sprang upon the gangway with a life-preserver,
and the crew detailed to the lifeboat ran to their stations at the
boatfalls.

And in the meantime the cause of all this commotion was experiencing a
rather peculiar adventure.

Clif possessed to a remarkable degree the power of quick decision and
action in cases of emergency. He seldom required more than a few
seconds to make up his mind.

In the present case he was upon the rail and preparing to dive almost
before the bracelet had touched the water. With all his promptness, he
was not alone, however.

The young Portuguese boy--the chief spirit among the youthful
divers--had also seen the flash of metal.

To him it meant a coveted reward, and his brown heels twinkled in the
air just a second after Clif’s body left the top of the forecastle rail.

The two went under the water together.

Clif’s eyes opened after he vanished below the surface. He saw,
glittering below him, the bespangled bracelet. And he also saw the dark
shadow cast by his antagonist.

Of the two the native lad was probably more at home in the water, but
Faraday had a store of determination and grit which made up for it.

As soon as he espied the youngster he realized the true state of
affairs, and he sent his feet up with a spurt that shot him toward the
glittering bauble.

It was a race beneath the surface of the old Tagus.

The Portuguese boy had as an incentive two things. One was the hope
of a pecuniary reward, and the other an overwhelming desire to defeat
this insolent visitor from a foreign country who dared to try his skill
against a native diver of Lisbon.

As for Clif, what was his incentive?

A smile, that was all.

The bottom of the Tagus is easily reached by a few vigorous strokes.
The bracelet had settled upon the bottom where it glittered and gleamed
as if mocking the two lads.

Clif, by his spurt, had obtained a slight advantage, but he suddenly
felt himself grasped about the waist.

He was just in the act of reaching for the bracelet when the
interruption came.

The touch of the Portuguese lad’s hand acted like a spur upon him, and
he made a desperate clutch downward.

His fingers closed over the bit of jewelry, then with a wriggle and a
savage kick he freed himself and shot toward the surface.

As he rose, gasping and spluttering, his rival was close beside him.
Through the water streaming from his hair Clif caught sight of the
boy’s face, and he marveled at the intensity of hatred it expressed.

“I pay you for dis!” almost screamed the Portuguese. “You come ashore
and I kill you. Dog of a Yankee, you hear from Pedro! You see.”

“Calm yourself, my friend,” drawled Clif, coolly, as he struck out for
the gangway. “Don’t get excited; it is bad for the health. Ta! ta!”

Pedro swam to his little boat and crouched sullenly in the stern. His
companions crowded around him and chattered like so many monkeys, but
he waved them off, and watched with burning eyes the progress of the
American lad toward the gangway ladder.

A loud cheer burst from the plebes on the forecastle as Clif held up
the bracelet. The two pretty girls clapped their hands, and the one who
had dropped the piece of jewelry seemed overwhelmed with confusion.

When Clif reached the deck he found both the first lieutenant and the
officer of the watch awaiting him.

“What is the meaning of this, Mr. Faraday?” demanded the former,
peremptorily.

Clif held up the bracelet, and replied, quietly:

“A young lady visiting the ship dropped this overboard, sir.”

The officers were compelled to smile.

“And you dived for it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which young lady was it?”

Faraday turned and indicated the owner of the bracelet, who was walking
aft with her companion.

“Jove! I don’t blame the young rascal,” muttered the first lieutenant.
“She’s a beauty.”

Extending his hand, he added, aloud:

“It was a gallant act, Mr. Faraday, and it does you credit, but it
probably would have been better if you had left the job to one of those
boy divers. I will return the bracelet to the young lady.”

But Clif hung back.

“Want the pleasure yourself, eh?” laughed Lieutenant Watson. “Well, you
deserve it.”

That was Clif’s opinion also, and he lost no time in claiming his
reward. He did not present a very prepossessing appearance in his
dripping uniform, but he held his head jauntily and advanced to meet
the girl.

His fear that she spoke only Portuguese was speedily dissipated.
Extending her hands impulsively, she exclaimed, with an accent which
added to the charm of her silvery voice:

“Oh, how I thank you for your kindness, señor! You have dared so much
to save my poor bracelet. It was so good of you.”

“I am amply repaid,” replied Clif, gallantly. Then he added, with a
smile: “You must pardon my rather moist appearance. The water was not
altogether dry.”

“We will not keep you,” said the girl, hurriedly. “You should change
your clothing.”

As Clif bowed and started to walk away, she blushed slightly and said:

“My parents will consider it a pleasure if you should call upon them.
My name”--she extended a neat card--“and address. Can we not hope to
see you soon?”

“I will be pleased to call when I go ashore,” replied the handsome
young cadet. “Until then--good-by.”

As he walked forward he saw Judson Greene standing near the spot where
the conversation had taken place.

“So Judson has been listening, eh?” thought the latter as he walked
past. “He don’t look particularly pleased. Jealous, I suppose.”

He glanced at the bit of pasteboard in his hand and read:


     JUANITA WINDOM,
            Ruo Ferdinand No. 78.


“Windom?” he muttered. “Why, that’s an English name. Her father must be
either English or American. That accounts for her excellent command of
the language. This is getting more interesting.”

His thoughts were interrupted by a shout, and he found himself
surrounded by his friends. They were all laughing gayly except Joy,
whose funereal cast of countenance seemed to have increased.

“Hi, Clif!” cried Trolley, slapping him upon the back, “by Jim, you
great hero. Hurray! you save bracelet and win beautifulist girl in
Lisbon. You one dandy.”

“Slowly there, Trolley,” laughed Clif; “I don’t see where I have won a
girl.”

“She likes you; I saw her blush,” put in Nanny Gote. “Just you wait,
Clif Faraday. I’ll tell Tess Herndon back in Annapolis all about this
affair. I’d be ashamed of myself if I were you.”

“That’s straight,” chuckled Grat Wallace. “He’s getting to be a
regular masher. He’s not content to keep the upper classes guessing
about hazing, and saving torpedo boats at sea, and such little things,
but he needs must----”

He dodged to escape a blow from Clif’s hand, and darted in high glee to
the forecastle.

“Better go down and get those wet duds off,” advised Toggles. “You’ll
look better.”

“Clif Faraday, what is the matter with the diver boy?” demanded Joy,
solemnly. “He’s looking at this ship as if he would like to eat it.”

Clif glanced out through the nearest port. Pedro was still crouched in
the stern of his little boat.

He gave a howl of anger on catching sight of Faraday, and added, with a
choice collection of Portuguese epithets:

“Wait till I catch you on shore. I fix you. I make you sorry you dive.
You see, dog of a Yankee.”

“He seems excited,” observed Clif, calmly. “His mind must have given
way under the strain, poor fellow----”

Nanny stooped and snatched up a wet swab. Flung with unerring aim, it
caught the vociferous lad in the face and bowled him over with neatness
and dispatch.

A laugh greeted the shot. It was followed by cries of rage from the
half-dozen diver boys in their little boats alongside the ship.

Pedro, the leader, gave a signal, and the flotilla paddled toward the
dock. Clif went below to change his clothing, after a last glance in
Juanita Windom’s direction, and the episode was closed save for one
thing.

Standing near one of the open ports was Judson Greene. With him was
Spendly.

“Did you see that Portuguese, Spendly?” asked Judson, in an eager voice.

“Yes.”

“Hear what he said?”

“He threatened Faraday.”

“Yes. Well, there’s a chance for us, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ll go ashore and see if we can’t use that fellow, Pedro, to help us
get square.”

An hour later word was passed that the liberty party would leave for
shore at once.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE CONSPIRACY.


When liberty is given on a man-of-war the whole crew does not go
ashore, but only a watch, or part of a watch.

The liberty party from the old _Monongahela_ was composed of one-half
of the port watch, and the forty odd cadets composing it glanced back
in gleeful triumph at their less fortunate mates, who were watching
their progress with lugubrious faces from the forward deck.

Conspicuous among the latter were Grat Wallace and Trolley, neither of
whom were member of that half of the port watch.

They were doubly sorry that their names had not been included. They
regretted that they were not going ashore and also that Clif, whom they
liked and admired more than words could tell, would not be able to go
with them on the morrow.

For Clif was in one of the boats speeding ashore, and naval cadets on
a practice cruise are not permitted liberty two days in succession.

With Clif in the leading cutter were Joy and Nanny. And in the
whaleboat following were Judson Greene and Chris Spendly.

Judson was very thoughtful on the way to the beach. He replied only in
monosyllables to the chatter of his crony. He was evolving in his mind
a scheme by which the boy Pedro’s newly developed hatred of Clif could
be worked to the latter’s undoing.

And he was also going over in his mind the reasons why he, himself,
hated Clif so bitterly. The thoughts carried him back to Annapolis and
beyond.

There was a long list of little plots and conflicts and rather shady
schemes Judson had originated, but he always had been worsted in all
these conflicts.

This enmity started in Hartford, Conn., from which city both had
entered the academy, and it had continued until the present moment.

When the cadets landed at the main dock they found a crowd of idlers
gathered there, possibly attracted by the rumor that a number of
American naval cadets would pay a visit ashore.

Curious spectators, beggars, small boys, boatmen, and all that go to
make up the water-front population of a city like Lisbon, thronged the
street outside the gate and made complimentary and other remarks as the
boys passed from the dock.

In the background, partially concealed behind a group of spectators,
was a lean, brown-skinned boy with shifty, furtive eyes and a shock of
black hair.

He was clad only in a light shirt and trousers, both of which showed
signs of recent contact with water. As the naval cadets trouped past he
watched them eagerly until three walking together and laughing merrily
came into view.

Then his little eyes contracted, his face darkened with rage, and the
nails of his clinched fists bit deep into the flesh.

He drew back, but not before he was observed by two cadets who had
loitered behind their companions. They walked on a few paces, then
dropped back and approached the barefoot boy.

“I say, aren’t you the chap who was diving for pennies alongside the
ship this morning?” asked one, with assumed carelessness.

The boy glared at them defiantly, and made a reply in Portuguese.

“Drop that lingo,” sharply exclaimed the cadet. “I know you can speak
English because I heard you. Your name is Pedro, and you were defeated
in a dive by one of our fellows.”

Pedro made an inarticulate sound in his throat and moved away as if
with the intention of leaving the newcomers.

“I guess you had better wait a while if you care to get square with
that fellow,” said Judson Greene--for it was he--placing one hand upon
the lad’s shoulder. “We know all about the affair, and we are ashore to
help you out a little if we feel like it. Any place about here where we
can get a drink and have a quiet chat?”

Pedro eyed them for a moment from under his black brows, then he gave a
little nod, and without a word, trotted off.

A brief period later the three precious rascals, Judson, Chris Spendly
and Pedro were busily talking in the back room of a low _fonda_, or
drinking resort, on one of the side streets leading from the water
front.

In the meantime the rest of the liberty party was merrily proceeding
toward the center of the city, attracting favorable greetings from
shopkeepers, and glances of admiration from the pretty girls along
the way, for the American naval cadet ashore is both liberal with his
money, and gallant in his personal appearance.

Clif, Joy and Nanny were walking together and their hearts were light
within them.

Three weeks on board ship with tumbling decks, close quarters and
stormy winds made good dry land very attractive.

Joy alone looked gloomy. He was a human paradox. When his spirits were
lightest his face showed the deepest depression.

“It’s worth while spending a long time at sea to get such an
appreciation of mother earth,” laughed Clif, executing the first steps
of a hornpipe. “Eh, Joy, old boy?”

“Oh, I don’t know; there are other pleasures,” sighed the lanky plebe.
“And this isn’t such a great place after all. It looks nice enough from
the ship, but----”

“‘Distance lends enchantment to the view,’” quoted Nanny, sagely.
“You are right there. These houses that seemed so pretty with their
different colors are not so much after all. The most of them are
simply baked mud whitewashed or bluewashed or greenwashed, as the case
may be. And look at the streets. Humph! they aren’t as wide as an alley
at home.”

“I am sorry you boys are not pleased with the state of affairs,” said
Clif, gayly. “I’ll see the king and have things attended to. There is
one thing you must acknowledge though--the girls are handsome.”

“You noticed that quick enough,” sniffed Nanny, who had rather a
contempt for the opposite sex. “You got a girl in Annapolis before
you’d been there two days, and you picked up another here before the
anchor chain had finished rattling through the hawse pipes. It’s a
wonder you didn’t run across a couple of durned mermaids on the way
over.”

Clif laughed.

“How can I help it, kidlets?” he replied, with a wink at Joy. “Don’t I
try to keep the girls off? But they will fly to me like--like----”

“Niggers to a watermelon patch,” suggested Joy, gravely.

By this time the cadets had reached one of the main thoroughfares. As
usual in such cases, they paired off and went in different directions.

Clif and his two chums remained together.

“We will take a look at the town and then I’ll leave you for a while,”
announced the former.

“Going to call on Miss Juanita Windom, I suppose?” said Joy.

“Yes.”

“I think you might stay with us instead of chasing after a girl you
never saw until this morning,” complained Nanny.

“I am not due there until four,” laughed Clif. “It’s now one, and we
will have almost three hours in which to do the city. What more do you
want, youngster?”

Nanny was compelled to acknowledge contentment, and the trio of friends
strolled about the streets and visited the great cathedral, and
conducted themselves much as boys do under similar circumstances.

At half-past three Clif called a carriage in front of the Praça do Dom
Pedro, the principal square of Lisbon, and gave the driver a card upon
which he had written Miss Windom’s address.

“I’ll meet you at six or thereabouts on the dock, chums,” he called
back to Joy and Nanny. “Take care of yourselves and don’t get into any
scrapes.”

“I have a contract to punch Judson Greene’s head if I run across him,”
growled Joy. “He’s ashore, you know.”

“Yes. I saw him. But don’t waste any time getting into a row with the
fellow,” replied Faraday. “He isn’t worth it. Ta! ta!”

They stood for a moment, and watched him whirl away, then they sadly
turned and sauntered across the square.

If either had continued watching the carriage a trifle longer they
might have seen something rather surprising.

While the vehicle was rumbling past the northern corner of the plaza,
a lithe, brown-limbed, barefooted boy darted from behind a group of
chattering beggars and swung on behind the carriage.




CHAPTER XXII.

AND THEN SILENCE!


The top was down, but Clif was too engrossed in thought to discover the
fellow. On went the conveyance through the miserably paved streets,
on past churches and stores and residences, and away from the main
portion of the city to a quiet, highly respectable suburb where the
houses rested in detached grounds abloom with a wealth of semi-tropical
verdure.

When the carriage finally slackened up a short distance from a pretty
villa, the unbidden passenger was still swinging behind, but he leaped
nimbly to the ground and darted into the shadow of a tree in time to
escape notice.

The driver placidly overcharged Clif fourfold, and drove away, leaving
the cadet to enter the grounds, where he received a hearty and blushing
welcome from Juanita and her friend.

An hour later another carriage entered the street. It was of the
same class as the first, but the box was occupied by a stalwart,
black-browed native with a scowling face.

He drove slowly through the street, then turned back again, as if
awaiting a call.

Time passed; the sun touched the western hills and disappeared, and
the mist of an early twilight gathered over the city. A distant clock
sounded the hour of six. From the great cathedral came a mellow chiming
of bells, followed by a discordant clatter from some less favored
church.

Suddenly the ornamented gate in front of the Windom villa opened and
Clif emerged, gallantly lifting his naval cap to those inside.

He glanced hastily at his watch, then with a half-suppressed
exclamation of surprise, looked about for a conveyance.

The carriage which had been loitering in the vicinity was coming
briskly toward him. He hailed it, leaped inside, and was soon leaving
the vicinity.

While passing a nearby corner Clif chanced to look over toward a
barefoot lad standing under a wall lamp.

“Gorry! it’s that little beggar, Pedro,” he muttered. “What’s he doing
out here, I wonder? Guess he saw me from the expression on his face.”

He fell to musing over the diving episode of the morning. From that
to his extremely pleasant afternoon with Juanita was but a step, and
Pedro’s scowling face speedily gave way to the beautiful, attractive
countenance of the girl.

It was growing dark very rapidly.

The carriage rattled along over the rough cobbles and through streets
entirely unfamiliar to the young cadet.

Presently it drew up with a jerk and Clif, aroused from a reverie,
looked about him. He saw the façade of a large church on one side, and
a small garden, inclosed by an iron railing, on the other.

It was high ground and through the trees of the park could be seen the
spires of a number of chapels in the lower part of the city.

The street was apparently deserted, but lights here and there indicated
the presence of inhabited residences.

Clif looked questioningly at the driver.

“Why did you stop here?” he asked at a venture.

“Me wanta show you fine view, señor,” replied the man, respectfully.

“View? I don’t care to see any view. Drive on; I want to reach the dock
at once.”

“But, señor, it take you one minute. It ver’ fine view. All visitor
come here at this time night. It no good any other time. You like-a it
ver’ much. You no regret.”

Clif liked nature, especially in the shape of picturesque scenery.
He knew that he would be late in meeting his chums, but he could not
resist the temptation.

“Hurry up, then,” he said, springing from the carriage.

He did not see the triumphant gleam in the driver’s eyes as the fellow
prepared to follow him, nor would he have understood the meaning if he
had. Suspicion of evil was very far from Clif’s mind just then.

The horses were drawn up to the side of the street and left standing.
As Clif and the driver entered the little park, which seemed
untenanted, a brown-limbed lad, lithe and sinewy, hastily entered by
another gate.

He was panting for breath as if from a long and hard run, but he did
not slacken speed among the trees and bushes a few paces behind the
others.

The driver glanced back once and saw him, but Clif continued on
unsuspectingly to where the park ended abruptly at a low stone rampart.

Beyond this was a steep declivity--a stone precipice--which extended
down with scarcely a break to the roofs of the houses one hundred feet
below.

The face of the precipice was of rock with here and there a tuft of
scraggly vegetation growing in the small crevices.

Clif paid little attention to these details. He was lost in admiration
of the really beautiful view stretched out before him.

Darkness was almost at hand, but away in the east, a soft rosy glow
still lingered above the hills. Down below at his feet was a panorama
of lights and shadows, twinkling sparks of fire, and black objects
grotesque in their vagueness.

The river flowed beyond the town, lighter in color and bearing smudges
which on nearer view would have resolved themselves into steamers and
ships and fishing craft of many sizes.

This much Clif saw and admired, then he remembered the lateness of the
hour and was on the point of turning to go when suddenly he felt a
pair of sinewy arms clasped about his body.

A low voice hissed some command in Portuguese, then a soft object,
evidently a coat, was thrown over his head and wound tightly.

He struggled, of course, and tried to cry out, but the muffled sounds
went no further than his lips.

He writhed and tugged and fought madly to free himself, but those
inflexible arms did not yield.

A hand snatched away his watch, another went through his pockets with
practiced deftness, then came a muttered exclamation, and the lad found
himself being lifted from the ground.

This last movement wrung a cry of terror from his lips. He knew the
intention of his assailants.

They meant to hurl him from the wall!

Crying frantically for help, Clif made one final, desperate effort to
escape.

He struggled to free his arms until the muscles stood out in great
bands; he kicked and butted, fought with hand and knee and teeth, but
he was slowly and surely forced back against the hard stone rampart.

Then came the end. There was a last mighty effort, then a wild cry rang
out into the night echoing down, down, down until a soft, crouching
thud placed an abrupt period to the horrible shriek.

And then, silence!




CHAPTER XXIII.

“CUTTER AHOY!”


In a back room of a disreputable drinking resort on a narrow street
leading from the water front were seated two youths clad in the uniform
worn by United States naval cadets.

On the table between them were a bottle and two glasses. Both youths
were smoking cigarettes, and both appeared ill at ease.

“I can’t stand this much longer, Chris,” said one, nervously flipping
the ash from his cigarette. “If that little beggar don’t turn up pretty
soon----”

“You’ll go and look for him,” interrupted the other, with a sneer.

“Don’t be a fool. How could I find him in this confounded city?”

He snapped open his watch and added, abruptly:

“Almost seven. Confound it! what can be keeping him?”

“Probably had trouble finishing---- What’s the matter?”

The other had banged the table with his clinched fist.

“Shut up, will you?” he snarled. “Haven’t you any sense, talking like
that? Do you want to get us--us hanged? People may be listening. It
isn’t so anyway. Nothing was to be done except giving--except giving
Far--him a scare.”

Chris Spendly slowly sent a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. He
smiled grimly. “We won’t argue that question, Judson,” he drawled. “But
when you cough up fifty dollars and promise fifty more, it’s not for
the purpose of giving people a scare. And that’s true enough.”

Before his companion could reply there was a sound at a door leading
to the rear yard. Both sprang to their feet, Judson white-faced and
trembling.

A lithe, sinewy, barefooted lad hurriedly entered the room. He was
breathing heavily, and his face was mottled white as if from deadly
fear.

He tried to speak, but before the words could form themselves an
interruption came in the shape of a loud knock at the door opening into
the bar.

With a gasping cry, the lad vanished in the direction whence he had
come. The cry was echoed by Judson, who stood cowering near the table.

“We are suspected,” he moaned. “It has been done, and they are
after----”

“Stop that, you fool!” grated Spendly. “How can they suspect us?”

He strode to the door and fumbled at the key unsteadily. He was pale,
but there was desperate determination written in his face.

At last the lock yielded and the door flung open revealing--the man in
charge of the place.

“You want more drink?” he asked, in broken English, bowing humbly.

“No!” snarled Chris, tossing him a piece of money.

“Come on,” he added to Judson. “It’s time we were at the dock.”

They had presence of mind enough to saunter forth leisurely, but once
free of the ill-favored resort they quickened their steps almost to a
run.

“It won’t do for you to be seen looking like that,” exclaimed Spendly,
roughly, passing under a street lamp. “Brace up, you fool. You would
give yourself away to a blind man.”

Judson pulled himself together with an effort. He was ghastly pale, but
he walked steadily as they resumed their way toward the dock.

They found the majority of the liberty party gathered there awaiting
the hour set for returning on board.

It was on the stroke of eight and the boats were already on their way
ashore.

Shortly after Judson and Chris reached the dock, a carriage drove up
and Joy and Nanny leaped out close to where the former were standing.

Joy glanced anxiously from one to the other of the group of cadets. His
face was even more grave than usual. And Nanny looked as if tears were
not far away from his eyes.

“I say,” called out the lanky plebe, “has any one seen Faraday?”

Judson and Spendly shrank back into the shadows.

“No,” replied a first class cadet named Blakely. “He ought to be here.
Why, what’s up? You fellows look worried.”

“We can’t understand why Clif isn’t here, that’s all. He went out to a
place in the suburbs at four o’clock and was to meet us on the dock at
six. We’ve been up to the house where he called and they said he left
there in a carriage shortly before dark.”

“He may have stopped somewhere on the way back.”

“No. Clif is not the fellow to break a promise if he could help it.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” came from the shadows back of Blakely. “He’s not so
much. I guess he’d break more than a promise if it came to the point.”

“You wouldn’t dare to say that to his face, Chris Spendly,” retorted
Nanny, warmly. “He’d make you shake in your boots.”

Chris discreetly remained silent. His malignant nature had caused him
to revile the boy whom he knew in his vicious heart was lying mangled
and bleeding at the foot of the bluff, but he had sense enough not to
carry it too far.

And Judson was frantically plucking at his sleeve and begging him to
remain quiet for Heaven’s sake.

“I think you will see Faraday showing up in ample time, youngsters,”
said Blakely, kindly, addressing Joy and Nanny. “There isn’t any reason
why he shouldn’t.”

“Here come the boats!” suddenly exclaimed a cadet.

Three men-of-war cutters dashed in from the darkness and rounded to
alongside the landing steps.

An officer sprang out, glanced at his watch, then cried briskly:

“The liberty party will fall in and answer promptly as the names are
called.”

He produced a paper and rapidly read from it by the light of a boat
lantern held by the coxswain.

“Mr. Andrews.”

“Present, sir.”

“Mr. Blakely.”

“Present, sir.”

“Mr. Caldwell.”

“Here, sir.”

“Donovan.”

“Present, sir.”

“Mr. Faraday.”

No reply. The line of cadets shifted uneasily and a subdued murmur
arose.

“Mr. Faraday,” repeated the ensign, in a louder voice.

Still no answer.

“Any one seen Mr. Faraday?” was the next question, given impatiently.

“Not since four o’clock, sir,” replied Joy, glumly. “He went visiting
and has probably been detained.”

“He knows the hour. We can’t wait longer than three minutes.”

The officer’s watch snapped with a determined click. The time passed
slowly. Many anxious eyes were directed toward the gate at the end of
the dock, for Clif, by his manliness and sturdy independence, won more
than one friend even among the enemy.

“Time’s up! Get into the boats,” at last came from the ensign.

Joy and Nanny obeyed with evident reluctance, but Chris Spendly and
Judson Greene seemed surprisingly eager to shake the dust of the city
from their feet.

“I do not like to report Mr. Faraday absent,” said the young officer,
as he took his place in the stern of the first cutter, “but duty is
duty. Up oars! Ready! Let fall----”

“Cutter, ahoy!”

The hail, clear and sharp, came from the other end of the dock. The
gate swung back and a youth clad in a naval cadet uniform ran toward
the boats.

As he passed under a light a cry came from one of the cutters:

“Clif Faraday!”

The cry was followed by a commotion in the boat.

“What’s the matter there?” called out the ensign, sternly.

“Judson Greene has fainted, sir.”

A little later a group composed of the majority of the plebes and a
sprinkling of upper class cadets was gathered around Clif as he leaned
against the pivot gun on the _Monongahela’s_ forecastle.

The faces of all save the central figure were expressive of the
liveliest interest and excitement.

“And they got you against the stone rampart in the park, you say?”
eagerly questioned Grat Wallace.

“Yes,” replied Clif. “There were two of them, the driver of the
carriage and that scoundrelly little diver, Pedro. I thought my end had
come. In fact, to use a common expression, I saw my finish. I had no
intention of giving up, though.”

“Not you,” broke out Nanny.

“Thanks,” laughed Clif; then he continued:

“I don’t know how it happened without”--his voice grew soft and
reverend--“the Almighty interposed and aided me. All I know is that we
were struggling on the very edge of the stone rampart when the driver
slipped over the edge and”--Clif shuddered--“fell down to a horrible
death.”

“Served him right!” exclaimed more than one voice.

“I whipped the coat from my head just in time to see Pedro disappear
among the trees. I gave chase, but he escaped me. I was pretty well
shaken up, I tell you, but I managed to reach the central police
headquarters and told my story to an interpreter.”

“And the driver?”

“They found him an hour later on the roof of a house at the foot of the
bluff. He was a mass of broken bones.”

“And all this was done simply because you made that little Portuguese
diver angry this morning?” said one of the group.

“I suppose so,” replied Clif, thoughtfully; “but it does seem the
fellow must have had some other reason than petty revenge and robbery.
If so, it’s bound to come out some day.”




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE ENGLISHMAN WITH A “HAW!”


“Haw, ye don’t mean to say the blawsted thing will fire a shot forty
miles?”

“Thirty-nine miles, two hundred and fifty yards, fifty-six feet and
eleven inches is the exact record, sir.”

“But, don’t ye know, that’s almost as far as it is from Lun’nun to
Oxford, bah Jove!”

“Just thirteen feet, three inches further, sir.”

“Haw!”

“The charge is the most peculiar part of it, sir.”

“Ya-as?”

“Very peculiar. In fact, you would hardly believe it.”

Clif, who was the speaker, leaned confidentially toward his companion,
and added, in an impressive whisper:

“We use green Holland cheese, sir.”

“What! Bah Jove, you cawn’t use cheese to fire a gun, don’t you know?”

“Fact, sir. I’m not supposed to give the secret away, but I know you
won’t repeat it. The American Government is very progressive, sir. And
the American naval officer is great on inventions. It was a cadet that
invented the ‘cheesite,’ as the new explosive is called. He made the
discovery in a very queer way.”

Clif paused a second for breath, then he continued in the same
impressive tone:

“He was a shipmate of mine at the academy, sir. His name was Mudd.
Funny name, eh? Well, Mudd was very fond of Dutch cheese. Ate it all
the time. One day he brought a pound or two into our room--I bunked
with him, you know--and hid it in the stove. There happened to be a
little fire in it, and bless me if the cheese and heat didn’t generate
gas and blow the room into the middle of the Severn River. I was nearly
drowned trying to swim ashore.”

“Haw! Most extraordinary. Must make a note of it.”

“Great, isn’t it? Well, Mudd--when he left the hospital, had three ribs
broken and lost a piece of his solar plexus--he experimented on the
‘cheesite,’ found the gas, and is now worth a million. Great, isn’t it?”

Clif’s companion was an Englishman of about twenty-three. He had a
full, round red face with a pair of pronounced “mutton-chop” whiskers.
A single glass, or monocle, was screwed tightly in one eye; and he was
dressed in tweeds of the loudest patterns.

There was a vacant, open-mouthed expression on his face that seemed
peculiarly appropriate to his general appearance.

The young naval cadet finished his remarkable description of the
discovery of “cheesite” without the slightest indication of mirth.

“Haw! Most extraordinary invention!” exclaimed the Englishman. “But you
Americans, don’t ye know, are extraordinary creatures, anyway. Haw! I
had a cousin who went across the pond a few years ago. Landed in Ohio
or some other town, I believe, and started the most peculiar business.
Haw! it was really remarkable.”

He stopped to give his glass another twist, and continued, with a yawn:

“Haw! the cousin was a queer fellow. He ran away to--aw!--Africa or
Iceland when he was a youngster, and had a wild time of it. Then he
settled down in Lun’nun, and----”

“What was the queer business he was in?”

“Yas. He settled in the town of Ohio and started a shop, don’t you
know. Haw! haw! It was deuced comical. I split me sides every time I
think of it, don’t ye know.”

“But the business?”

“The business? Haw! I forgot what it was, ye know. But it was a blasted
peculiar thing. Haw!”

Clif laughed.

“I am deuced obliged to you for your trouble, don’t ye know,” resumed
his companion, extracting an elaborate case from his coat. “Here’s me
pasteboard. I--aw--would be delighted to see you again.”

“Thanks. I haven’t a card with me, but my name is Faraday, Clifford
Faraday, and I am a naval cadet of the new fourth class on board this
practice ship, the _Monongahela_. We left Annapolis, Maryland, where
our naval academy is situated, several weeks ago, and have been here in
Lisbon three days.”

Clif read the card. The words, finely engraved, were:


     “J. CHESIRE-CHESHIRE CATE,
                  “London, England.”


It was shortly before noon. The presence of the old American frigate,
which, despite her age, was trim and neat aloft and alow, had
attracted a number of visitors from the city.

The officers of the ship and the naval cadets forming the crew, always
gallant and hospitable, had welcomed them heartily, and were showing
the vessel.

To Clif’s lot had fallen this exaggerated specimen of the genus Briton,
and the cadet’s delight was great.

He proceeded to spin yarns that even the proverbial marine would not
listen to, but J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate simply looked vacant and said
“Haw!”

The day was bright and pleasant, and the crowd of visitors was
constantly increasing. The _élite_ of the city had evidently selected
this day on which to inspect the “Yankee” practice ship, as the
visitors were altogether of the better class.

The broad spar deck was thronged with handsome girls and well-dressed
gentlemen. The gay European costumes, interspersed here and there with
the attractive uniforms of the officers and the natty dress of the
cadets, formed an inspiring scene.

A band, made up of naval cadets, discoursed sweet music from a
tastefully decorated stand on the quarter-deck. From the spanker-gaff
floated the Stars and Stripes resplendent in new bunting.

While Clif was reading the inscription on the card given him, Nanny
hurriedly approached him, and said, in a stage whisper:

“She’s coming, Clif. She’s in a boat alongside.”

“Who? Not----”

“Yes. It’s the girl. It’s Miss Juanita. She’s got another girl with
her.”

“Thanks,” replied Clif, hurriedly. Turning to J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate,
he added:

“Please excuse me, sir. I wish to meet a friend.”

“Certainly, by all means, deah boy,” drawled the Englishman, waving his
monocle. “I am deuced obliged to you for your--aw!--kindness, don’t ye
know. Pray consider my rooms ashore your--aw--home. Glad to see you
again, don’t ye know.”

As Clif hurried toward the gangway something very like a scowl came
into J. C.-C. Cate’s previously vacant face, and he muttered beneath
his breath:

“Miss Windom coming aboard here? And she knows this young cub of an
American. What complications will this lead to?”




CHAPTER XXV.

SAVING A KING.


Clif reached the gangway ladder just as Juanita Windom stepped down to
the deck, accompanied by another girl of her own age.

When she espied the young cadet she blushed slightly, and held out her
hand, with a winning smile.

“This is indeed a pleasure, Miss Windom,” he said, with even more
earnestness than the remark warranted.

“To me, Mr. Faraday,” the fair young girl replied, laughingly. “I have
been longing for the time when I could return your visit of--of--when
was it, Elna?”

“Such a long, long time ago,” responded her companion, mischievously.
“It was day before yesterday.”

“Only day before yesterday,” laughed Juanita Windom, with a shy glance
at Cliff, who looked extremely self-conscious under the battery of such
eyes. “Why, it seems months since you called at the house. And the
dreadful adventure you had at the upper plaza when that horrid driver
tried to rob you, and throw you down the cliff. It was in the papers
yesterday. You must tell me all about it, Mr. Faraday.”

“I will be delighted----”

“Haw!”

The little group turned at the sound. The Englishman, monocle screwed
tightly in his eye, was making a profound bow to Juanita.

“Haw! delighted, Miss Windom. Delighted to see you on board, don’t
ye know. Beautiful--aw!--day; lovely weather, lovely girls, and
you--aw!--the fairest of them all.”

“Haw!”

The exclamation did not come from the Briton, and he looked at Clif,
finding that youth apparently engaged in the innocent occupation of
arranging the strap of his cap.

Juanita and her friend repressed their laughter with difficulty.

“Haw! it must have been an echo, don’t ye know. Fawncy hearing one’s
own voice when you didn’t speak. Deuced good joke, eh?”

And the Englishman burst into a hearty laugh. But there was something
in it that did not ring true to Clif.

By skillful maneuvering Clif succeeded in bringing Juanita’s friend
and J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate together, then he boldly walked off with
the fair beauty of Lisbon.

“There is a splendid view of the river from the other side of the deck,
Miss Windom,” he said, leading the way past the mainmast. “I fancied
you did not care to remain with that gentleman,” he added, frankly,
when they were alone. “And, anyway, I wished to tell you all about my
adventure of the day before yesterday.”

“And I am eager to hear it,” replied the girl. She continued gravely:
“As for Mr. Cate, I do not like him. There is something about the man
that repels me. He is a business acquaintance of father, and I met him
while he was dining at our home.”

“A business acquaintance,” smiled Clif. “One would never connect
business with--aw!--J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate, don’t ye know.”

Juanita laughed.

“It is not what you would call business exactly,” she replied. “Father
is interested in pearls. It is a hobby and he has spent a long time and
a great deal of money in collecting them. He has one of the largest
collections in the world, I believe. This Mr. Cate is trying to
complete a certain necklace, and he came all the way from London to
see if father has one of the required size. He has, but I do not think
he will part with it.”

“So that is the story of Mr. Cate, eh?” said Clif. “Well, we’ll talk on
a more pleasant subject.”

“Tell me about your adventure with----”

She was interrupted by a commotion at the gangway. A splendidly
equipped barge, glittering with brass and polished wood, dashed
alongside, and an officer fairly covered with gold lace ascended to the
deck.

He was met by the executive officer and conducted to the cabin. A few
minutes later he reappeared and was rowed ashore.

Then orderlies ran here and there, officers hurried below, and a
general air of excitement prevailed.

“Something is in the wind,” said Clif. “That officer brought an
important message. Ah! there goes the boatswain’s mate to pass a call.”

A sturdy old sailor, with the insignia of a petty officer upon his
sleeve, rolled to the vicinity of the mainmast and gave a long, shrill
whistle, adding in a deep, salty voice that had been trained in many a
gale:

“A-a-all hands-s-s, dress ship! And st-stand by to man yards. Look
lively!”

Like wildfire the word went along the deck:

“The king is coming on board!”

“I believe that is right,” Clif said to Juanita. “They are certainly
excited enough. Well, I must leave you for a little while. Duty calls
me up on one of those yards. Please do not go away until I see you
again.”

“I am afraid I must,” the girl replied. “I promised to lunch with
father in the city. I’ll stay a moment to see the king, though. By the
way, Mr. Faraday, father would be pleased to have you call at the house
this evening if you come ashore.”

“And you?” asked the lad, softly.

“What a question!” murmured Juanita, her eyes falling under his ardent
gaze. “Why, I--I--that is--my father’s wish is law, you know. I must
coincide with what he says.”

“No, that is not enough,” persisted Clif.

“Well, if you insist,” laughed the girl, “I’ll say----”

“Haw! here you are, my dear Miss Windom. Ha! ha! you quite escaped us.
Deuced cruel of you, don’t ye know.”

The Englishman sauntered up, twirling his monocle in an affected
manner. Turning to Clif, he added:

“What’s the row, dear boy? Are you going to bombard the blooming town?”

“No,” shortly replied Faraday. “The king is coming on board.”

The effect of this commonplace announcement upon the Englishman was
remarkable.

He started as if struck; his face became ashen in color, and he
appeared to breathe with difficulty.

“What is the matter?” asked Clif, startled. “Are you ill?”

“No--no, a little attack, that’s all, don’t ye know,” replied Cate,
recovering himself with an effort. Another moment and he had regained
his usual composure.

“Haw! bah Jove, Richard is himself again,” he drawled, carefully
adjusting his eyeglass. “So his royal highness is coming aboard? I’ll
be glad to--aw--meet him, don’t ye know.”

“And so will he be glad to meet you--not,” replied the cadet, the last
word _sotto voce_.

With a low bow and a smile to Juanita, he hurried away to his station.

The two girls strolled to the other side of the quarter-deck as if
unconscious of the Englishman’s presence.

Once alone, the latter’s face again took on that hunted expression
noticed by Clif. He leaned against one of the broadside guns and stared
absently through the port.

“It is fate,” he muttered; “grim fate. It is ordered and must be done.
It’s a pity, too. The other chance was so good. Just think of it;
strings of them, and each worth a fortune. And the girl, too. If I had
the opportunity and that cub of a boy was out of the way--but what’s
the use of dreaming? Duty first, then pleasure. Yes, pleasure, if”--he
laughed mirthlessly--“if I live to enjoy it.”

A shrill piping of the boatswain’s whistle interrupted his soliloquy,
and he turned to see a rainbow of gay bunting flaunt bravely from a
line stretched over the three mast trucks.

Some one near him pointed in the direction of the shore, and exclaimed
that the king was putting off in the royal barge.

There was a rush for the side, but J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate remained
in his former position, the expression upon his face becoming more and
more pronounced.

In the meantime Clif had joined the other cadets in the work of
preparing the ship for the royal visitor.

Being a plebe, Clif’s duty did not carry him above the deck, but he
found plenty to do elsewhere.

Shortly after he left Juanita the crew were called to quarters. Each
cadet hurried to his station at one of the guns and stood at attention
with military precision.

A moment later the saluting battery opened fire and thundered forth the
national salute of twenty-one guns.

The sulphurous vapor from the last discharge had barely lifted above
the hammock netting when the cannon in the fort ashore began.

The distant booming of artillery, the smoke enshrouding the old
practice ship, the scores of bright flags fluttering from the masts,
and the silent groups of uniformed men and cadets lined up on each side
of the snowy decks formed an inspiriting scene--one to tarry long in
the memory.

Clif with Joy, Trolley and Nanny were stationed at the after starboard
broadside gun.

From where he stood Faraday could see the visitors grouped on the port
side of the deck. He managed to catch a fleeting gleam from Juanita’s
sparkling eyes, then his gaze wandered to a figure clad in the loudest
of loud English checks.

It was J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate.

The doughty Briton had dropped his eyeglass and was staring eagerly
toward the gangway. To Clif, who was not more than fifteen feet away,
his face seemed absolutely transfigured.

He no longer wore the vacuous, simpering expression, but into his
face had crept an air of desperate determination so intense that Clif
marveled at the sight.

“I say, Trolley,” he whispered to the Japanese youth, who stood next to
him, “just look at that blooming Englishman.”

“He sick?”

“No, but he seems greatly excited. That fellow is a mystery to me. I
thought at first he was an empty-headed dude, but, by George, I believe
he is playing a part.”

“What for?” queried Joy, who had overheard him.

“I don’t know,” replied Clif, “but I’ll keep my eyes on him just the
same.”

Joy winked at Trolley.

“It’s a case of jealousy,” he said. “Clif doesn’t like the way he is
hanging around Miss Windom.”

Faraday laughed easily.

“If you knew her you would see the ridiculousness of your remark,” he
retorted. “She----”

“Silence there,” sharply called out the gun captain. “Attention!”

There was a rattle of drums, a blare of bugles, then a stout,
dark-featured man with a heavy, curled mustache and a full sweeping
beard stepped down from the gangway.

The side was manned by a number of officers who raised their caps in a
salute as the visitor passed them.

It was Dom Carlos the First, King of Portugal.

He was accompanied by a gayly uniformed suite composed of naval and
military officers, but he, himself, was attired in simple civilian
clothes.

Captain Brookes, at the head of his staff, advanced to meet the royal
visitor. Bowing profoundly he uttered a few words of welcome and led
the way toward the cabin.

Clif, after one quick glance at the king, again turned his attention to
Cate, the Englishman.

The fellow had stepped back, crouching behind the group of absorbed
spectators, but his face was plainly visible.

The expression of implacable hatred upon it sent a flood of light
through Clif’s mind, and he involuntarily advanced a pace from the gun.

“Get back there,” came sternly from the petty officer in charge. “What
do you mean by----”

He stepped back aghast.

There was a sharp cry, a shrill note of warning, then a clamor of
excited voices sounded through the ship.

A figure clad in cadet blue was seen to leave the after starboard gun
and with one great leap reach the side of Dom Carlos.

It was Clif!

At the same moment a man, who had bounded from among the spectators,
sprang upon the king.

There was a glitter of steel, then as the threatened monarch staggered
back to avoid the blow, a pair of little arms were thrown about the
would-be assassin’s body!




CHAPTER XXVI.

AUDIENCE WITH A KING.


The excitement that ensued was intense. There was a rush for the spot
by visitors, officers and crew. A chorus of screams from the feminine
visitors, a quick word of command, and an excited jumble of English and
Portuguese.

The crowd suddenly swayed, and a man in civilian clothing--a suit with
a loud check pattern--was seen to savagely force his way to the ladder
leading to the after deck.

A score of hands clutched at him, but he eluded them and gained the
top. As he paused for a second, bareheaded, disheveled, breathing
heavily, a cry came from the frantic mob below.

“It’s the Englishman!”

“Yes, the Englishman!” he flung back, fiercely. “I defy you, slaves of
a royal master. I have tried to strike a blow for your liberty, hounds,
a blow for the world’s liberty, and have failed. I----”

A bullet whistled past his head, but he never flinched. As the crowd
below surged up the ladder eager to tear him limb from limb, he
retreated slowly and with magnificent courage to the railing.

As the foremost of his pursuers reached the deck, he sent a curse at
them, then turned and sprang over the side into the swiftly moving
waters of the Tagus.

“After him! Quick! Five thousand _milreis_ to the man who captures him
alive!”

These words, in broken English, came from one of the royal suite.

A rush was made for the side, and eager glances were cast down toward
the river. A dozen excited sailors and cadets recklessly leaped into
the water and began a search, but nothing was seen of the desperate
fugitive.

The Tagus in the immediate vicinity of the practice ship was thronged
with vessels of all classes, attracted to the spot by the royal visit,
and it was observed at once that the assassin’s chances for escape, if
he was an expert swimmer, were good.

There was commotion on board the neighboring craft, and many false
alarms, but no certain sign of the Englishman’s presence.

When the excited crowd on the _Monongahela_ turned inboard again, they
found a group of officers and cadets surrounding Clif, who was calmly
standing in the center while the surgeon fastened a temporary bandage
round a bleeding cut in his right arm.

The king had been hurried to the cabin by his suite and Captain
Brookes. A moment later he emerged and joined the group surrounding
Clif.

“I want to see the brave American boy who saved my life,” he insisted.
“It was he who foiled that assassin and he shall have my heartfelt
thanks.”

“But, your majesty,” implored one of his military staff, in Portuguese,
“there may be other wretches on board. They may make another attempt on
you.”

“Then keep every one at a distance,” was the retort. “Act rather than
talk. It is strange you and your comrades did not prevent that man from
making his attempt. What has been done to capture him?”

“Word was sent ashore at once, sire. A launch is even now on the way
with instructions to the chief of police and the general in charge of
the district. The assassin will be in prison before dark.”

“See that he is!” exclaimed the king, imperiously.

Turning to Clif he extended both his hands and added in excellent
English:

“My brave lad, I thank you. I deplore the wound you have received in my
service.”

“It is nothing, sir,” replied Clif, simply.

“A king’s life nothing?” smiled his majesty. “Ah, that is a democratic
principle. It is American. I admire your cleverness and bravery. You
will hear from me.”

He turned away, after learning from the surgeon that Clif’s wound was a
mere scratch, and, surrounded by his suite, left the ship.

A wild cheer greeted him as he entered the barge, and there was every
sign of joy at his escape.

As soon as the barge was clear of the _Monongahela_, Captain Brookes,
ever mindful of his duty, gave orders to man yards and fire a second
salute.

In the meantime the search for the Englishman had been prosecuted with
vigor.

The news that a reward of five thousand _milreis_, about six thousand
dollars, had been offered for the fugitive, dead or alive, had spread
like wildfire.

In a remarkably short space of time the surface of the river in front
of the city was literally covered with boats, large and small.

As the minutes passed and no sign of the Englishman was discovered, the
belief that he had perished became prevalent.

When Clif went forward after an interview with the captain and officers
of the _Monongahela_--an interview that caused his heart to beat with
unaccustomed rapidity--he found an ovation awaiting him.

He tried to escape, and dodged down the forward ladder for that
purpose, but a number of new fourth class cadets, headed by the lanky
Joy, captured him, and he was borne in triumph about the decks.

“Hurray for the Yankee who saved a king,” shrieked little Nanny. “Three
cheers and--and a whole cageful of tigers.”

The cheers were given and the tigers, too, but in subdued tones. It is
not considered the proper thing to make much noise on board an American
war vessel.

“You make one good speech now,” insisted Trolley, grinning broadly.

“Not much,” was Clif’s flat refusal. “I draw the line at that. What’s
all this row about, anyway? One would think war had been declared at
the very least.”

“Something more important than that, dear boy,” drawled Toggles. “I’ll
wager anything the news is being cabled about the world this very
minute. And the name of Clifford Faraday, new fourth class plebe,
function, and rescuer of kings in general, will be in everybody’s
mouth before dinner. Clif, your fortune is made. I see you Lord High
Muck-a-Muck of Portugal before you are a day older.”

Clif laughed carelessly.

“I am content to remain a cadet in the United States Naval Academy,” he
replied. “That’s honor enough for me.”

“What did the girl say?” asked Nanny, slyly. “I saw you talking to her
after your great act.”

“If you want to know, youngster, she asked me to tea to-night and I
accepted the invitation. She also said she would like to have me bring
another cadet.”

A hubbub broke out at once. Every plebe within hearing was eager to be
selected.

Clif finally decided to take Joy, much to the disappointment of the
others. The liberty party was called away at one o’clock, and, shortly
after that hour, the two chums found themselves ashore.

They little suspected as they carelessly walked toward the main plaza
that they were destined to experience some very thrilling adventures
before they again saw the old _Monongahela_.




CHAPTER XXVII.

THE BROKEN TREE BRANCH.


The pedestrians in the streets taken by Clif and Joy little thought as
they glanced carelessly at the two cadets that the sturdy youth with
the intelligent, manly face was he who had saved their beloved ruler,
Dom Carlos the First, from death that day.

It was well for Clif’s peace of mind and comfort that this was true,
and he inwardly rejoiced thereat.

The city was in an uproar. All Lisbon seemed to be hunting for the
fugitive and hoping against hope that he had escaped from the river.

The large reward was not the sole cause of this feverish activity. The
people far and wide respected and loved their ruler and they thirsted
more for the assassin’s blood than for the fortune his body represented.

The streets and plazas were filled with excited groups discussing the
event. Platoons of mounted police and companies of soldiers kept the
air ringing with the tread of galloping hoofs.

“It takes something like an attack on the king to stir up these
people,” said Joy. He added, with a sigh: “Isn’t it enough to make a
peaceful man sorrow to see so much strife and contention and--and pomp
of war? Woe!--woe!”

“Oh, shut up, you fraud,” laughed Clif. “There isn’t a plebe in the
academy, nor a cadet, who likes fighting more than you do. You would
rather fight than eat.”

The two cadets spent some time looking about the city, then they
engaged a carriage and ordered the driver to take them to the suburb in
which lived the Windoms.

“This has been a day of events, chum,” remarked Clif as he leaned back
in the vehicle. “Who would ever take that blooming ‘haw’ Englishman to
be an anarchist, and one of the very worst type, too. Why, I guyed him
for half an hour this morning and thought all the time he was a fool.”

“He was a fool,” replied Joy, grimly.

“Yes, otherwise he would never have tried such a preposterous trick. I
wonder if he came here to make the attempt on Dom Carlos’ life?”

“Like as not. I read in a paper the other day that considerable
activity existed in anarchistic circles. Sort of getting ready to
slay a few monarchs, I suppose. They drove a lot of ’em from Paris and
London. Perhaps this J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate was one of them.”

“No doubt,” yawned Clif, stretching his arms.

“D’ye think he was drowned?”

“Yes. He remained under water too long. Small loss to the community at
large. I guess Miss Windom won’t wear mourning. She couldn’t bear the
sight of him.”

“I don’t blame her. Was he a friend of the old man?”

“No. Merely a business acquaintance, I believe. Said he was looking for
a certain-sized pearl to finish a necklace. Mr. Windom is a collector
of pearls, you know. He has a fortune in them.”

Joy sighed.

“Wonder if the pearls go with the girl,” he sighed.

“Let’s talk on some sensible subject,” retorted Clif, shortly.

It was within an hour of dusk when they finally reached the pretty
villa occupied by the Windoms.

The house was situated in the center of an extensive park, well-kept,
and shaded by fine old trees. There was a small lodge at the gate,
presided over by an elderly native, who admitted the cadets with every
mark of respect.

He had evidently learned of Clif’s gallant deed that morning.

Juanita and her girl friend were awaiting them when they reached the
house, and the cordial welcome the two lads received made them very
happy.

Shortly before tea, Mr. Windom arrived from business. His greeting of
Clif was characteristic of the man whose sole hobby in life was the
collection of rare and valuable pearls.

“I am proud to know you, sir,” he exclaimed, wringing the lad’s hand.
“Proud to know that you are a guest under my roof to-night. The whole
city--the whole world, in fact--is ringing with your name. It was
great, it was magnificent! It was a deed worthy of an American.

“But you are wanted at the palace, my dear boy. The king has sent
messenger after messenger to the _Monongahela_ in search of you. The
old ship is fairly surrounded by steamers and tugs and small craft
bearing bands of music and visitors. They call for you in vain. How can
you remain in my poor house while the whole city is eager to see you.”

“If it is all the same to you, sir,” laughed Clif, “I’d much rather
remain here.”

He glanced slyly at Juanita, and was gratified to see a soft, rosy
flush overspread her fair cheeks.

Kindly-hearted Mr. Windom seemed greatly pleased at Faraday’s
diplomatic answer, and carried both boys off to look at his pearls,
which were kept in a small iron box in one corner of his private room.

After duly praising the really magnificent collection, some of which
were almost priceless in value, Clif and Joy returned to the girls.

Three very pleasant hours were spent after tea, then the stern rules of
naval discipline which had decreed that the ship must be gained before
midnight, caused the two cadets to announce their departure.

Juanita and her friend were left at the house, but Mr. Windom
hospitably started to see his guests to the gate.

“It is not often we have the honor of entertaining the rescuer of a
ruling monarch, Mr. Faraday,” he smiled, as they walked down the tiled
path. “So I must make the most of it.”

“I wish the king hadn’t come on board to be rescued, sir,” laughed
Clif. “Especially in a country where so much---- Gorry!”

He stopped and placed both hands to his head. His cap had fallen to the
ground, together with a large twig from a tree under which they had
just passed.

“What is the matter?” asked Mr. Windom, hastily. “Are you hurt?”

“No. It startled me, that’s all,” replied Clif. “It was just a branch,
rotten, I suppose.”

He picked up his cap and the twig, the latter more out of curiosity
than anything else, and walked on after his companions.

“I must have those branches clipped again,” said Mr. Windom. “I did not
know the trees were in such condition.”

Cordial farewells were exchanged at the gate, and the two cadets
entered a carriage which had been ordered for that hour.

“I must be getting nervous,” laughed Clif as they rolled away from the
villa. He held up the twig and added:

“When I jump on being struck by such as this, it is time----”

He ceased speaking abruptly, and uttered a low whistle. The carriage
was passing close to a street lamp at that moment, and the light fell
full upon the object in his hand.

“What’s up?” queried Joy.

“Do you see the end of this bit of wood?” replied Clif.

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s broken sharp and clean.”

“What of it.”

Clif glanced at the lanky plebe for a moment before replying, then he
said, slowly:

“This twig is not rotten, chum. Neither did it break of its own weight.”

Joy showed more excitement than his wont.

“Then you think----” he began.

“There was some one up that tree,” finished Clif, impressively. “And he
was there for no good.”

“Driver, let us out,” he added to the coachman.

The latter promptly drew up his horses and received his fare without
a word of comment. He was too much accustomed to the vagaries of
passengers in general to feel surprised.

A minute later Clif and Joy were hurriedly making their way back to the
Windom villa.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE MIDNIGHT MARAUDER.


“What do you think of it, chum?” asked Joy, as they rapidly retraced
their steps.

“Hard to say,” replied Clif, briefly. “Perhaps a plot to rob the house.”

“Valuable pearls, eh?”

“Yes.”

“We may be mistaken after all,” persisted the lanky plebe. “Limbs have
a habit of dropping from trees, you know. We would feel rather foolish
if we aroused the house, and found only a cat or something like that.
Miss Windom would laugh.”

“I’ll take the risk of that. I’d take any risk rather than see----”

“See the pearls stolen,” interrupted Joy, with an internal chuckle.

“Confound the pearls.”

“Oh, I meant girl. Excuse me.”

By this time the villa was reached. The extensive grounds were
separated from the street by a stone wall ten feet in height and
surmounted by an ornamental iron railing.

Clif halted near one end of the wall and announced that he would try to
enter there.

“No use arousing the lodge-keeper,” he added. “There may be nothing in
it after all, and I don’t want to raise an alarm without proof. You can
stay here and I’ll take a peep through the grounds on the quiet.”

Joy protested, but Clif was firm.

“Well, it won’t be long until I follow you,” muttered the former as he
gave his friend a “boost” to the top of the wall. “You are altogether
too fond of getting into danger. I’ll have to look after you, sonny.”

Clif found it an easy matter to drop into the grounds. Once inside he
crouched close to the wall and took his bearings.

The night had assumed that depth of blackness usual before the rise of
a full moon. The villa grounds presented one smudge of darkness with
no alternating patches of light and shade. A cool breeze came from
the direction of the river, bringing occasional bursts of noise and
commotion from the central portion of the city.

Clif moved away from the wall, stepping carefully and with hands
outstretched.

He had not covered a dozen feet when he plumped squarely into a
depressed flower bed, and sprawled headlong, creating what seemed to
him a prodigious clatter.

He lay quiet for a brief period, then not hearing any sounds, rose to
his feet and once more moved in the general direction of the house.

He knew that somewhere in the blackness in front was the tree, but of
its exact location he was ignorant.

Suddenly a twinkling light appeared through the gloom.

It gleamed for a moment, then vanished.

“Guess they have gone to bed,” muttered Clif.

The thought gave him confidence, and he proceeded with less caution.
The cadet had no desire to be discovered prowling about the Windom
grounds. Explanations would be awkward, especially if the robber up the
tree proved to be some marauding cat or restless fowl.

Clif was not so positive in his belief now. The simple fact that the
limb had been snapped from the tree was no longer a convincing evidence
that something underhand was in progress, and he proceeded in a
half-hearted manner, almost decided to turn back.

Presently his feet touched gravel, and he knew that he had gained the
path leading to the gate.

He paused and glanced about, at the same time listening intently. The
only sounds came from Nature’s voice in the chirping of night insects
and the distant murmuring of the city.

“Everything seems all right here,” muttered Clif. “I guess I was
mistaken after all. I think I will----”

He ceased speaking and glanced upward, attracted by a rustling among
the leaves of a tree under which he was standing.

Before he could move or cry out, a heavy object dropped swiftly upon
him, and he sprawled headlong upon the path unconscious!

Out in the street Joy paced up and down impatiently in the shadows of
the trees.

As the minutes passed without sign or sound of Clif, the lanky plebe
became uneasy, and he reproached himself for permitting his friend to
make the venture alone.

“There was no sense in it, anyway,” he muttered. “I could have gone
along just as well as not. If he don’t come out in three seconds, I’ll
follow.”

Joy’s “three seconds” soon elapsed, and the plebe made good his word
by boldly scaling the wall. This he did by propping a piece of wood
against the brick barrier, thus gaining the ironwork at the top.

Dropping lightly upon the soft earth on the other side, he started
across the grounds.

He had barely taken a dozen steps when there came through the night air
a crash of splintering glass, then a scream of terror.

A moment of breathless silence, then a hoarse murmuring of excited
voices, interspersed by occasional shouts. By that time Joy, armed with
a stout stick, was bounding in the direction of the uproar.

The intense blackness of the night had given way to a subdued light
from the rising moon, whose silvery rim was even then showing above the
city.

Suddenly, outlined in this faint illumination, Joy saw the figure of a
man dash away from the house.

As the plebe turned to follow, shouting at the top of his voice,
another figure rose up in front of the fugitive and grappled with him.

The two were struggling fiercely when Joy reached the spot. There was
light enough for him to recognize in one of the combatants his chum,
Clif.

That was enough for the brave lad. Calling out encouragingly, he sprang
upon the back of the other.

The cadets found their hands full. The stranger fought like one
possessed. He bit and kicked and rained blows upon his antagonists, but
they clung to him with unswerving courage until he at last sank to the
ground exhausted.

“Bring a rope here, quick!” gasped Clif, as Mr. Windom, accompanied by
a number of servants, ran up. “Bring a rope to tie this fellow. We’ve
got a prize.”

“My pearls, my pearls!” wailed the old merchant, wringing his hands.
“They are gone. I tried to save them, but the robber----”

“We’ve got the robber all right,” interrupted Clif, cheerily. “And
there are your pearls over yonder.”

He inclined his head toward an indistinct object lying upon the path.
Mr. Windom snatched it up with a cry of joy. It was a bag containing
his priceless collection.

The servants returned with a rope and several lanterns. Several of the
men assisted the cadets to bind the prisoner, then he was turned over
with his face to the light.

Cries of amazement came from all save Clif.

“Great guns!” gasped Joy, “it’s the Englishman! It’s J.
Chesire-Cheshire Cate!”

“The would-be assassin!” cried Clif. “Seize him!”

There was a desperate struggle, in the midst of which several neighbors
and two mounted policemen arrived.

It was decided not to reveal the identity of the prisoner, for this
would have aroused the citizens to the fury of a lawless mob.

So the would-be assassin was locked up as a common burglar.

From Juanita, Clif and Joy learned that it was she who had discovered
the presence of the Englishman. She had gone into the library for
something, after her father had retired, and had been just in time to
see a strange man tiptoeing from her father’s apartments.

She screamed, and the intruder made a dash for the nearest window, and
leaped boldly through the sash. It was plain the desperate man had
worked quickly.

Clif explained the arousing of his suspicions by the broken tree
branch, then he and Joy took their departure.

It was long after midnight before they reached the ship, and they had
already been marked in the log as “absent without leave.”

Clif’s story speedily caused the erasing of the entry, and on every
hand he and Joy were hailed as heroes of the first water.

The authorities failed to get any account from Cate of how he had
escaped from the river. The man was locked up in a dungeon, and there
remained a long time.

During the balance of the stay at Lisbon, Clif was made a social lion
to such an extent that he was glad when the announcement came that the
training ship would up anchor and away for the island of Madeira. Clif
hated to part with Juanita, but she promised to write often, and with
this he had to be content.

As the gallant old _Monongahela_ left the port of Lisbon, all the river
craft saluted her with a prodigious din of whistles and cannon shots.
It was a time never to be forgotten, and it must be admitted that the
plebes enjoyed it immensely.




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|Transcriber’s note:                              |
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|Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.  |
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