Boy Scouts at Sea

BOY SCOUTS AT SEA OR A CHRONICLE OF THE B. S. S. BRIGHT WING

BY
ARTHUR A. CAREY

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
HAROLD JAMES CUE

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1918

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PREFACE

This is not a boys’ “book of adventure” but an imaginary chronicle based upon the setting of an actual cruise. It is believed that there are Sea Scouts who will recognize familiar surroundings and will recall the ideas which are associated with them; and it is hoped that Land Scouts will feel, on the Bright Wing, the same spirit that they associate with the inspiration of the camp fire.

A. A. C.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER I “ After You, Pilot ”

“Say, George, won’t you come down to the island this afternoon and spin us a yarn? You know we’re going to Boston to-morrow to ship on board the Bright Wing, and we want to talk things over; perhaps you could give us some extra points.”

The speaker was Dick Gray, who had been an apprentice Sea Scout ever since the previous autumn, and was now about to take his first summer cruise on the Boy Scout ship with his two companions, Tom Sheffield and Chippie Smith. He was talking to his brother George, a midshipman just home from Annapolis for his vacation, and he naturally looked up to him as an authority in nautical matters. Besides, George had recently returned from a long trans-Atlantic cruise, and he had only just heard of Dick’s interest in the Sea Scouts. Much had happened since George’s last visit home, and Dick was eager to tell him all about it and to win his sympathy and approval.

The headquarters of the three boys was a little shack on Duck Island, which formed part of the home farm, where, for a couple of years past, they had kept their pets and hatched all the plans for their various adventures.

George was a good deal older than Dick, and had recently—within the last few days—heard a story which had impressed him so deeply that his idea of all his duties as an officer had been changed and heightened. When, therefore, Dick asked him to come down to the island and to spin a yarn to the boys, this story immediately jumped into his mind and he wondered whether he could tell it in such a way as to create in them the same feeling that it had aroused in him.

“I wish I knew more about your Boy Scout business, Dick. Can’t you tell me something about it?” he asked.

“Well, now,” answered Dick, “to pass for apprentice we have to know more knots than the Land Scouts do to pass for tenderfoot, and to swim twenty-five yards farther.”

“That isn’t exactly what I’m after,” replied George. “I understand that the Land Scouts learn more woodcraft and such things than the Sea Scouts, and that the Sea Scouts are supposed to be more at home in the water. What I would like to know is what the Boy Scouts are? I met some one the other day who explained to me that there were two branches of the service—corresponding to the Army and the Navy—but he did not tell me exactly what the service itself was. Now, in the Navy, it’s our duty to defend the country by sea, and all our education is intended to make us efficient in seamanship and the art of war. The object of the whole thing is just the same in the Navy as in the Army, except that the one fights by sea and the other by land. It’s the protection and service of our country in either case, and both branches take the oath of allegiance.”

“That’s it!” said Dick eagerly. “We have an oath, too, and it’s the same oath for the Sea Scouts as it is for the Land Scouts. I guess it’s the same for Boy Scouts all over the world; although, of course, they use different words and speak in different languages.”

George asked his brother to repeat the oath, and then he remarked:

“I’m glad to know that oath, Dick. It has helped me to understand more about the whole thing.”

“I’ll get you the manual,” said Dick, “and you can look that over and see for yourself what the law is.”

“The law? Oh, I suppose that’s a sort of Regulations. Run and get me the book and I’ll come down and spin you a yarn before supper time. When do you expect the other boys?”

“At four o’clock.”

Dick ran off delighted, and hastened over to the island to put everything straight for the meeting in the afternoon. Then he came back to the house and telephoned to Tom Sheffield in the town, for fear he might possibly make a mistake in the time or forget to come, and asked him not to forget to bring Chippie with him either.

They arrived on time, sure enough; and George and Dick were already on the island to receive them. After they had squatted down on the floor of the shack, George lost no time in beginning.

“Before I begin my yarn, fellows, I want to say that I have had a good talk with Dick about the Boy Scouts, and I have also been reading carefully the scout oath and law, and other things given in the manual. I understand more about it than I did before, especially about the first point of your oath, which is: ‘To serve God and my country, and to obey the Scout Law.’ In the Navy, we have to take an oath of allegiance, too, but are supposed to serve our country principally through fighting, while you are trained to serve your country in all sorts of different ways. In the Navy and the Army we have to fight with shot and shell and cold steel; but this is not the only kind of fighting a fellow may have to do in order to serve his country. He has got to fight the evil in himself in order to be trustworthy, helpful, brave, and all the other things that your scout law requires. These things that you have to learn are the very foundations of service; and, if you should engage in military work later on, your training in these things will make you far better soldiers or sailors than you otherwise would be. I can only say that I wish I had had such training before I went to Annapolis. The fact is, every man has to know how to fight, whether he is a soldier, or a sailor, or a civilian; and, unless you know how to fight against meanness, and falsehood, and cowardice beforehand, you won’t make so good a military man or so good a citizen when the time comes.”

“How about your story, George?” remarked Dick.

“All right,” replied George. “Here goes: I was staying with my chum, John Stimson, over the week-end a while ago, and, as we were going in to dinner with his father, Admiral Stimson, I stepped back at the door to let the old gentleman pass, but he held out his hand and signed for me to go first—I suppose because he was my host. As he did so, he said with a smile, ‘After you, pilot!’ Of course I walked in ahead of him, in obedience to his order, but I couldn’t make out what he meant by ‘pilot’, and the conversation was such that I could not butt in with a question about it. After dinner I got hold of John, who explained to me that it was a custom in the Navy, commemorating the act of Captain Craven of the U. S. S. Tecumseh at the battle of Mobile Bay.

“John said his father was never tired of telling the story, and was sure that he would be glad to tell it to me then and there. He asked me to wait a minute while he went to his father’s study to find out, and returned in a few minutes with this message: ‘By all means,—come in right away.’

“Well, boys, I wish I could tell it to you the way the old Admiral told it to John and me. But, as I can’t do that, I’ll just give you the facts: The Confederate fleet were up in the bay, protected below by strong coast fortifications on either side. The Tecumseh was the first ship in the line of Union vessels which were fighting their way up into the bay against the bombardment of the forts. Captain Craven was up in the turret with the pilot, who was pointing out the channel through the mine fields which had been carefully prepared by the enemy. But a mistake was made in the ship’s course which brought her into contact with a mine, striking her so that she went on her beam ends.

“You understand what this means?” said George, after a little pause, and he held up his two hands to indicate the angle to which the deck of the vessel would rise under the circumstances.

“Then she settled down with a kind of shivering motion and began to sink as the sea flowed in through the gash in her side.

“The inside of the turret was a small place and the two men shut up there were in close quarters. The only way out was the way they had come in, through an opening in the turret deck, like one of the manholes you see leading underground from the surface of the street. There was a little ladder in this manhole, and only room enough for one man to pass at a time. As the vessel settled and sank, it was inevitable that the water should rise in the manhole and ultimately fill the turret. There was no time to lose if either one was to make his escape from the death trap. It must have seemed a long wait to the two men as they stood facing one another and taking in their situation. But it probably wasn’t as long as it seemed before Captain Craven pointed to the manhole with the words that Admiral Stimson had quoted to me:

“‘After you, pilot.’

“You see, boys, Captain Craven had a law similar to your scout law; and, according to that, the captain of a sinking ship cannot think of saving himself until everyone else on board has been rescued. He obeyed this law of his calling without hesitation; and, when the pilot had made his escape down the manhole and been picked up and rescued, the water rose and filled the turret, and the captain went down with his ship. The whole thing could not have lasted more than a few minutes, although it must have seemed much longer; and, in that time, Captain Craven had maintained his honor and that of his country at the expense of his own life, while at the same time saving the life of another human being.”

George had realized the scene with so much vividness as he told the story, that all the three boys present felt as if they, too, had witnessed Captain Craven’s act of heroism. Dick felt, somehow, as if the opening of the manhole were right before them in the middle of the floor of the shack, and all three of them shared in his feeling. There was a long pause during which they visualized that scene in the turret of the Tecumseh.

George finally broke the silence:

“When the Admiral had finished, I sat back in my chair in a quiet kind of way, and after a while, the old gentleman spoke.

“‘You see, Gray,’ said he, ‘Craven only did his duty; but what enabled him to do his duty at that moment so nobly was the fact that he had done it hundreds of times before—again, and again, and again—in the ordinary affairs of his life and work. If he had been in the habit of shirking his studies, or of being mean to other fellows, or of yielding to fear in his ordinary life from day to day, he would have formed habits which would have made it difficult or impossible for him to be generous and manly when the supreme test came.’

“I couldn’t say very much,” continued George, “except to thank the old gentleman,—but I thought to myself, ‘You’re just such another one as Craven; and, if you were to ask me to cut off my finger, or my hand, I’ll be hanged if I wouldn’t do it.’

“Well, after that,” George went on, “I began to think about the Academy, and I seemed to see a thousand things that I might have done differently and better; and it seemed to me that I could hardly wait until vacation was over to get back to my work. Maybe, when you come back from your cruise, Dick will write me a letter and say how you got on, but I advise you to do the same thing that I’m going to do,—to think of that story every day and to put more push into doing the things that my oath requires.

“I suppose you fellows are going to have your meeting now, and I’ll go up to the house and unpack my trunk; I’ll see you again at supper.”

There was another pause after George had left the three boys, until finally Chippie remarked:

“I never thought of that before, fellows; but, when you do act in one way right straight along, you learn to do it better all the time. You remember a year ago I couldn’t knock up a ball decently; but I worked at it quite a lot, and the more I did it, the easier it came.”

“That’s so,” remarked Tom, “and you can knock up about as well as I can, now; but it seems kind of different with games and sports from what it does with other things that aren’t so much fun.”

“You bet it is,” chimed in Dick; “my mother gave me a letter to mail last week, and I found it in the pocket of my jacket three days after—a scout is trustworthy, eh? I tell you what it is,” continued Dick, “you know we have called ourselves a club and nobody knows it but ourselves, and we’ve been stickin’ up for each other at school and in the town when other fellows have tried to pitch into us, and that’s all right. But it seems to me that we could do more than that, and I’ll ask you two fellows to give me a dig in the ribs,—or if that doesn’t work—a punch in the nose, when you see me going to do a mean thing. I want to keep the scout law and my oath as much as I want anything, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t help me do that as well as to stick up for me when some other cove calls me names behind my back!”

Chippie and Tom looked at each other for a moment, and finally exclaimed together:

“Gee!”

“Then,” answered Tom, “why shouldn’t we all do the same thing? You know how hard it is to do things on time; and there’s no ‘being trustworthy’ unless you do. So Chippie, you and Dick just kick me out of bed when it’s time to get up, and I’ll be much obliged to you. Dad says I’m lazy, and I know he’s right, but I’ve got to learn to keep this scout law—or bust!”

All three assented cordially to the idea that they should join forces as brothers-in-arms against everything that stood in the way of their scout duty.

“I say,” cried Chippie, “this is what I call a club! And, see here, there are just three of us. Why not call it The Triangle Club?”

“And I vote,” said Tom, “we make this our motto:

“After you, Pilot!”

CHAPTER II Getting Ready

Two weeks before the founding of the Triangle Club, referred to in the last chapter, Ship’s Company Number 1, of the Sea Scouting Branch of Northbridge Boy Scouts, were holding their last meeting in their regular assembly room before the beginning of the summer cruises.

The B. S. S. Bright Wing was to sail from the Boston Navy Yard in just two weeks, and some of the younger boys were already beginning to feel that they must get their sea legs on so as to “be prepared.”

Dick Gray showed keen interest and great enthusiasm for this new venture in scouting; and because he was a good swimmer and loved the water, he hoped to prevail upon his father to apply for a berth on the Bright Wing during her first cruise of the season. He was a painstaking boy, and had always been useful about the house since he was “knee-high to a grasshopper.” His mother, though not an invalid, was very far from being robust; and, as Mr. Gray could not afford many servants, her household duties might often have been too much for her if Dick had not been there to take hold and lend a hand. Though not tall for his age, he was strongly built, and, if it had not been for occasional dark and gloomy moods, he would have been almost indispensable both in the house and on the farm. Naturally, every one was glad when they heard that there was a chance for Dick to go on a real cruise, for they knew that the boy’s personal interests—however willing he always was to keep them in the background—all lay in the direction of seafaring.

“I do hope,” said old Robert, the farm hand, to Mr. Gray, “that boy will get his chance at the sea, this year! He does deserve it, if ever a boy did.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Gray, much pleased with Robert’s approval of his son, “I think it will do him good. He’s a good home-body, we know, but we don’t know how he’ll turn out as a sailor among a lot of other boys; I can’t be sure how he’ll behave away from home when one of his ‘moods’ comes over him.”

While Mr. Gray liked Dick’s enthusiasm, he felt that he ought to find out as much as possible about the conditions of the life on board before making a decision, and that is what had brought him this evening to one of the regular Sea Scout meetings, to learn for himself, as much as he could, what the idea and the spirit of the undertaking really were. After he had been greeted by the scout master in charge—Mr. Howard Miller—while the boys all stood at attention—one of the older scouts, Jack Perkins, was detailed to stand by and give him all the information he possibly could.

Jack had been a boatswain’s mate for two summers running, and there was nothing he enjoyed more than explaining the details of the work to a new acquaintance; so he placed two chairs for himself and Mr. Gray on the low platform at the rear of the hall, where they could command a full view of all the proceedings, and then began talking to him in a low voice:

“You see, sir, the room here is arranged so as to be as much like the deck of a ship as possible. This broad platform that we are sitting on, with the colors hoisted in the center, is the ‘quarter-deck’ where only senior officers are allowed, with the exception of Sea Scouts on watch and of any seaman whose duty brings him here. That door over there, by which we came in, stands for the vessel’s bow, because it is just opposite the quarter-deck; but this is only so in a general way to indicate the direction of bow and stern, or ‘fore and aft,’ because it is also used as the gangway by which every one passes over the ship’s side either to come aboard or leave the vessel.”

“I understand,” said Mr. Gray. “I must confess that I did not know that I was stepping over a ship’s side when I passed through the door a few minutes ago!”

“Why!” exclaimed Jack, “didn’t you hear the boatswain’s call as you entered the room, sir?”

“Sure enough, sure enough,” said Mr. Gray. “I heard a whistle with a peculiar musical trill, but I did not know what it meant.”

“Well, sir,” said Jack, with a certain quiet dignity, “that is the salute that is always given to visiting officers when they come on board.”

Mr. Gray’s face lit up with a smile of intelligence. “Well, to tell the truth, I did feel something pleasant; and, now that I think of it, you boys were standing at attention at that very time when Mr. Miller came up and shook hands with me.”

“That’s right, sir,” said Jack. “We older Sea Scouts like these little bits of ceremony, especially because it’s just what happens when we are aboard the old Bright Wing, and brings back the taste of the salt water and the feel of the breeze on your face.”

“I see—I think I understand,” said the older man with a pleasant smile, and looking down the room, his smile broadened as he took in the bright and cheerful scene before him.

The Sea Scouts were all in their white jumpers and hats, for the idea of a ship’s deck of course included that of “out of doors”, and hats were only removed when something happened, like the arrival of a mother or sister.

The boys were grouped according to their sections (corresponding to patrols), in four little knots, each surrounding a table at which one of the boatswain’s mates, the scout master, or some other instructor, was presiding. They were sitting around their little tables like Land Scouts around a camp fire, listening and talking in low tones, so as not to interfere with what was going on in the other groups. One set of boys was tying knots and splicing bits of rope with a marlinspike made by themselves out of good hard wood. Dick had done so well with his knots that he had been put in charge of this group in the absence of the regular instructor. At another table a chart was spread out, and the parallel rules and dividers were traveling back and forth over the ocean amid contented murmurs and eager questions from the boys. In another corner the boatswain’s mate was putting his men through an informal examination in signalling. The whole scene, while very varied and animated, had the delightful atmosphere of combined activity and contentment.

Mr. Gray felt that every boy there was having a good time, and could not help catching the contagion of contented work. He made some further inquiries of Jack, and learned that each section rarely was kept on one subject more than twenty minutes or half an hour at a time, and that the instructors went from one group to another.

“You see, sir,” said Jack, “this is not intended to be like school, and we don’t want to keep a scout working at one thing until he gets tired of it. It is something like feeding your dog! He should have an appetite for more at the end of every meal.”

Mr. Gray sat musing quietly for a few minutes while his mind wandered back to his own boyhood. “I wonder,” thought he, “that there was nothing of this sort in existence when I was a boy!” Presently he turned to his companion with the question, “What is that green light in the right-hand corner and the red one on the opposite side?”

“Those are the starboard and port side-lights, sir, that are always run up at sunset when under way, and it is good for the new fellows to get used to their right position before they go to sea. I think you remember things by pictures in your mind better than you do by words. You see, sir, the boys have to light and lash these lamps in their proper places before every meeting; and then, when ‘Colors’ are over and the boatswain blows ‘stow away all gear’, the lamps and all other things have to be taken down and properly stowed away. That’s another thing, sir, I learnt from sea scouting that no one could ever pound into me on land. Before I went to sea I was the most disorderly lubber you ever set your eyes on; but on a ship there’s just so much space allowed to every man, and so every one is obliged to have a place for everything and everything in its place. Some fellows laugh at me now, but it makes me feel funny if I don’t find my shoe brush hanging on its own hook. If the fellows did not feel that way aboard ship, the whole place would be a mess and a litter in no time, and none of the gear would be in its place when needed; it would certainly cause delay and confusion, and might sometimes even be dangerous.

“These two groups on the right-hand side of the hall, where the green light is placed, are the two first sections of each division; and the other two, on the left-hand side as we face the door, are the two second sections of each division, on the same side as the red side-light. Of course, you understand, sir, that these are the four sections of a ship’s company as they stand on the deck of the Bright Wing,—each one being also the regular crew of one of the cutters or of the launch.”

Mr. Gray nodded assent, and then said with a laugh, “You mustn’t tell me anything more to-night, my boy, for I have taken in enough for one evening. You have given me a great deal to think about, and I am happy to believe that Dick—”

Just then the bugle rang through the hall, and, after a few sharp words of command from the scout master, the boys fell into formation for “trooping the colors.” Each section was represented by its color bearer and color guards, while the rest of the ship’s company were drawn up on either side fore and aft. At the word of command the section colors were marched up to the quarter-deck, two on each side of the national ensign, facing one another. Then the whole company present faced about towards the Stars and Stripes while the bugler sounded “Evening Colors.” At the final salute the section colors were smartly dipped, while every man’s hand was raised to his hat, and the color bearers marched down again to their places in formation.

All hands were then dismissed, and the formal activities came to a close. Only one thing remained to be done, and that was the stowing away of all gear. Mr. Miller stood with watch in hand while the boatswain piped the order, and Mr. Gray noticed Dick rushing across the hall to stow away the ship’s bell, while other boys were carrying the side-lights, the bill-boards, and all the other articles for which they were responsible. Presently Mr. Miller’s voice rang out: “One minute and fifty-two seconds! Record time!”

Just then Dick came running up to his father. “Well, Father, what do you say about the Bright Wing—don’t you think this is just about right?”

Mr. Gray assented smilingly and said: “I tell you what, Dick, if you will get this young man here to give you a little coaching before you go aboard,—well, I have nothing more to say.”

For about a second Dick seemed struck dumb with pleasure, while his eyes sparkled.

“Sure!” cried he, “won’t you, Jack? Say, when can I come around and see you? and may I bring Tom Sheffield and Chippie Smith along, too?”

Jack thought for a minute and then turned to Mr. Gray. “I will be glad to help them all I can, sir. Dick, you come around with the other fellows to-morrow after supper.”

“Gee!” Dick seemed to grow two inches taller in the next minute, and then rushed off to find Chippie and Tom.

CHAPTER III Jack—Chief Boatswain’s Mate

The next evening Jack cleared the table for his mother after supper and got the dining room all snug and shipshape. His own room was very small and at the top of the house; and, as his mother had offered to bring in some refreshments for the boys later in the evening, Jack asked permission to hold his meeting in the dining room.

His father had gone out to his Lodge, and Mrs. Perkins was very much interested in Jack’s interview with the younger boys. Her father had been a sea captain, and there was a picture of one of his ships hanging over the mantelpiece in this very room. Some beautiful large shells which he had brought home from one of his voyages stood over the fireplace, under the picture of his vessel, the Sally Smart—an old-fashioned clipper ship—famous in her time for her speed and style. The whole room had a somewhat nautical flavor; and in one corner was a low long lounge with a broad shelf partially overhanging it, which gave the general appearance of a ship’s bunk.

When Jack had won the cup for the broad jump, representing the Northbridge High School, Mrs. Perkins, in her motherly pride, had put the pewter cup alongside of her father’s shells on the mantelpiece.

It was a warm, spring evening. The scent of the lilacs was wafted in through the open door, and Jack could hear the boys’ footsteps as they came through the dooryard up to the porch. He met them at the door and led them into the dining room.

“You come right in here, kiddies, and make yourselves at home. You might as well get into the bunk there in the corner, all of you, and be as comfortable as you can before I begin with you, for I hope to get you good and tired by the time I get through!”

The small chaps could not help feeling at ease under the influence of Jack’s cordiality. He was really glad to see them, and they knew it, and so they took him at his word, and all three—Dick, Tom, and Chippie—snuggled into the bunk together, half sprawling and half sitting, like a litter of young pups.

“Fire away now,” cried Dick, “we don’t care whether school keeps or not; and, whatever you’ve got to say, I guess we can stand it!”

“Well,” replied Jack, “joking apart, I’m feeling pretty well this evening myself, for I have just had news from Mr. Miller that I am appointed Chief Boatswain’s Mate of the Bright Wing for the first cruise. Now, you lazy lubbers, take notice that the Chief Boatswain’s Mate is the father of the crew, and you’ve got to mind what I tell you, or you will have to stand on the seam, or walk the plank, or do anything else that Dad says.”

All this was said so good-naturedly that even Chippie, the youngest, was encouraged to answer back; so he called up with his small voice out of the recesses of the bunk:

“Gee, boys, he talks as if he were the Captain and Mate and the Admiral of the fleet all at once; but I guess he means well enough!”

“Good luck to you, Boatswain’s Mate,” called out Tom, “it’s a good thing to get some of your ideas ahead of time, and then we’ll know what to expect.”

“Say,” said Dick, “aren’t there any officers above you, or are you and the crew the whole show?”

Jack sat listening to these flying remarks with quiet satisfaction. “No matter what I am,—you’ll find that out soon enough; but I’ve been thinking myself that there is nothing like ‘being prepared’ when you have a good job ahead of you. I shall have to see that you lubbers are licked into shape the first or second day on board, and I might as well begin now, and so have more time for the others later on!—See?

“But, before we begin, I’d like to find out whether you know what ‘standing at attention’ means; for if you get that right from the start, it will save you and your officers a lot of bother.”

The boys began getting up out of the bunk; and, before they had all stood up, Jack gave the command “Attention!”

All three were on their feet in an instant, and then Jack formed them in line and made his inspection.

Dick, in his eagerness, was stiff and leaning over backwards; Tom stood fairly erect with chest up, but his fists were clenched; and Chippie stood with one foot about six inches ahead of the other. None of them looked straight ahead with quiet eyes.

Jack corrected all these mistakes very carefully, impressing upon each one the necessity of practising by himself until he could stand with heels together, chest up, back erect, little fingers on the side seam of trousers, and eyes looking straight ahead, without thinking of the details, but, as it were, automatically. Then he gave the command “At Ease!” and explained that they could take any position they chose, provided that one foot remained in the same place.

“Now tumble into your bunk again, for we’ve lots more to talk about. When you get home, look up the subject of ‘Etiquette’ in the pamphlet, ‘The Organization of Sea Scouts’, and there you can find out when you are supposed to stand at attention, and how to salute, with a few other necessary things.” Jack then drew himself up with an air of great authority: “Ladies and Gentlemen, I will now proceed with my instructions to this pirate crew. The subject will be divided into three parts: The first, Officers and Petty Officers; second, the Plan of the Deck; third, Etiquette and ‘A Sailors’ Cheer.’

“Number one: I have been asked whether there are officers higher in rank than myself. It might have occurred to the intelligent inquirer that—the—Captain—is—in—charge—of—the—vessel. All orders come from or through him; but, just as on board a man-of-war, the Secretary of the Navy would be higher in rank than the Captain;—so, on board a Boy Scout ship, the Chairman of the Sea Scouting Committee outranks the Captain. Under the Captain are the Mate and Sea Scout Master of equal rank, the First Mate being the Captain’s assistant in sailing the vessel, and the Sea Scout Master being in command of the crew of boys. For the rest of the organization I refer my audience to the same interesting pamphlet, ‘The Organization of Sea Scouts.’ My own responsible office, upon which I will permit no reflections, is that of the first of the four Boatswain’s Mates, or the Chief Boatswain’s Mate, as I think I have before remarked. I am in command of the first section of the first (or forward) division in particular, and of all four sections in general. I am the chief Boy Officer; but, while occupying this exalted position, I recognize the authority of my superiors and the authority of the scout law. I am immediately responsible to the Sea Scout Master and his assistants, but may also receive orders from the Boatswain, the Mate, the Captain, and the Chairman of the Committee. If I were to get a ‘swelled head’ and refuse to obey orders (which is impossible, I trust), it would be the duty of the First Mate to deal with me in the traditional manner of first mates on all self-respecting vessels.

Sketch of Deck Plan of the Boy Scout Ship “Bright Wing”

1. Quarter-deck (aft of dotted line, in direction of arrows).
2. Cabin Companionway.
3. Crew’s Day Bunk.
4. Side Ladders.
5. Berth-deck Companionway.
6. Forecastle Companionway.
7. Jib Netting.
8. Mainmast.
9. Foremast.
10. Windlass.
a, b, c, d, regular positions of the four sections at quarters.

“Number two: I have drawn up a diagram of the ship’s deck, showing the position of the quarter-deck (Number 1); the cabin companionway (Number 2); the crew’s day bunk (Number 3); the side ladders (Number 4); the berth deck companionway (Number 5); the fo’castle companionway (Number 6); and the jib netting (Number 7); the latter being an airy place suspended between sky and sea, where sleepy scouts off duty can take a nap after dinner.

“Gentlemen will please copy this diagram, so that, if necessary, they will be able to reproduce it in their sleep and find their way about the deck in the dark. There are many other things to learn about the ship, both inside and out, but this is just to give you a start. I shall be glad to answer any questions at the proper time.”

A confused mixture of voices came out of the bunk. The boys had become much interested in Jack’s lecture, and three pairs of eyes gazed out upon him from the dim light, one pair peering from under a shock of red hair belonging to Chippie Smith; one black pair that belonged to Dick; and a blue pair that shone out of the freckled face of Tom’s cropped towhead.

“Say, who’s the chairman?”

“What’s a companionway?”

“What are the side ladders for?” etc., etc., etc., etc., and right in the middle of the uproar, Jack rose and gave the command “Attention!” All sprang from the bunk and stood facing the door from the kitchen which had just swung open. Mrs. Perkins stood in the doorway with a tray in her hands, upon which were a pitcher of lemonade and some hot gingerbread, fresh from the oven.

All the boys stood as quiet as mice until she had deposited the tray on the table. When Jack had thanked his mother, he gave the command “At Ease!” and she turned to the boys, almost with anxiety, to find out whether Jack had made his talk pleasant and interesting.

She had a sailor’s blood in her veins, and she knew that a ship’s company must be a happy one if it was to do anybody any good. So she seconded Jack’s efforts with the true sailor’s cheer and the boys felt nothing but pleasure and enjoyment in connection with their little taste of drill in nautical knowledge. They all sat down to their supper, but Jack reminded the boys that he had not reached the third point of his lecture, namely that of Etiquette, and then asked his mother’s permission to round up the evening’s instruction, which he did quite simply and without any more mock heroics.

“Now the next thing I want to tell is about the quarter-deck. You see, boys,” he said, “in ancient times every ship carried a crucifix high up aft, and the National Ensign was flown just below it. These two symbols represented together the idea of God and the King, and therefore were saluted whenever a man passed over the side, either on arriving aboard or leaving the ship, and whenever a man came up from below on to the deck. We preserve the same custom now both in our Navy and on Boy Scout ships; because, although the crucifix and the King have disappeared, the ideas of God and our country always remain, and the custom of saluting the quarter-deck—whether the flag is flying at the time or not—is an expression of the first words of the scout oath: ‘On my honor I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country.’”

It was interesting to note the change in Jack’s manner as he solemnly repeated these words. Any one could have seen that he regarded them as very important and as expressing an idea to be held in reverence. The younger boys listened attentively and, after a little pause, during which his words seemed to be sinking into their minds, they thanked Jack for giving them such a good send-off, and then thanked his mother with real gratitude for her friendliness and the good little supper which they had so much enjoyed.

All hands parted in high spirits, full of expectation of the time when they should actually tread the deck of the Bright Wing.

As they were going home, Tom suddenly said: “Gee, I guess I’ll get up an hour earlier to-morrow morning and work on that diagram!”

“Say,” said Chippie, “he didn’t tell us the positions of the four sections on the deck; I’d like to mark them on my drawing. I’ve half a mind to go back and ask him now!”

“Oh! come along,” said Dick, “it’s too late; my Dad says you mustn’t drive a willing horse too far.”

“All right, Dick!”

And so they separated, each one to his own home and bed, to dream of bunks, and quarter-decks, and companionways, all mixed up together.

CHAPTER IV All Hands Aboard!

On Tuesday, the twenty-third of June, the Bright Wing lay in the berth assigned to her at the Navy Yard, all prepared to set sail at noon. There was a moderate breeze down the harbor, the tide was high at eleven o’clock, and all she would need would be a tow out for a mile or so to get out of the way of the shipping.

Everything was shining on board. The ship carried a new suit of sails, and her paint and bright work were all gleaming in the sunlight. At the fore topmasthead the Boy Scout flag was rippling, and at the main truck the long pennant was waving gracefully. The ensign did not catch the wind so well, being under the lee of a big battleship docked close by. Everything looked as if the Bright Wing were chuckling to herself in anticipation of her coming venture.

The three Northbridge boys had come up by the early train, accompanied by Mr. Sheffield and Tom’s sister Eleanor, and Chippie had immediately gone below to hunt up his locker, where he was putting the contents of his sea bag in order. The other two boys remained on the dock, taking in the scene before them with pride and pleasure; Dick talked with Mr. Sheffield about different points of special interest, while Tom’s beaming face spoke more eloquently than words as he and Eleanor listened to the conversation.

“She’s like a duck in the sunshine!” said Dick.

“Yes, right after her morning dip,” said Tom.

Presently Mr. Sheffield and Eleanor bade the boys good-by and Tom and Dick jumped on to the deck.

Some of the other boys had come on board the night before and had already put their lockers in order and got into their white uniforms. Dick and Tom received their individual “station billets” upon which they found all the information as to their bunks, lockers, divisions, sections, and special duties in the different emergency drills, written out clearly, so that they could set to work at once to find out where they belonged, what was expected of them, and how to make themselves comfortable.

At a quarter to eleven the boatswain’s pipe was heard, loud and clear, and the order “all hands aboard” rang out. The few scouts who were left on the wharf cut their good-bys short and quietly clambered down the ratlines or jumped on to the deck. Then the gangway was hauled up, the hawsers released, and the Bright Wing sat, like a gull, free in the water. In the meantime the Government tugboat had backed up within easy distance and thrown her line on board; and, as the vessel drifted into the channel, the tug got under way, the line tightened, and the Bright Wing followed in her wake.

The regular watch were at their posts on deck as a matter of course,—the lookout in the bow, the boatswain’s mate with his quartermaster and other seamen just in front of the quarter-deck, while the rest of the boys climbed up the rigging, shaking their hats in final farewell to their friends ashore.

It was not long, however, before they were far enough out in the channel for the tug to leave them. Jack Perkins was in the bow in charge of the line; the Captain was at the wheel; Jack was waiting for the order to “let her go”, and, as soon as the words reached his ears, he cast off the line which slipped into the water and left the Bright Wing to her own resources. The Captain of the tug waved his hand in salutation, the sails filled, and a sense of living motion was felt by all on board as the Bright Wing rolled over slightly and began cleaving the water under the pressure of her sails.

Tom and Dick were standing near the rail, well forward on the windward side. “Gee!” cried Dick, “what a difference there is between sailing and being towed.”

“You bet,” said Tom, “something like being alive or dead!”

Soon after they had parted from the tug, the bugle sounded for mess inspection, and the scout master passed up and down the line. After that, all hands waited “at ease” until the cabin boy came up on deck and announced dinner to the ranking officer. The boys then marched aft by twos, followed by the officers, and stood at their places at the tables until after grace.

Dick, Tom, and Chippie, much to their disappointment, found themselves in different sections, so that they did not sit together at meals; but Dick sat next to his boatswain’s mate, who was Clarence Ellsworth.

“Say,” said Dick, when he got a chance to speak, “why do the boys go down to dinner before the officers? You’d think the officers would march down first.”

“Well, you see,” said Ellsworth, “those who go down first have to wait for the others, and the officers come down when everything is ready to pitch into the food. Something like getting into a boat,—we have to go down first to get things ready. (Law Number 5.) It’s the same for Sea Scouts and for all sailors everywhere.”

“Oh, I understand,” said Dick.

The boys’ table ran down the whole length of the berth deck—fore and aft—on the starboard side, while the smaller officers’ table was on the port side. Jack sat at the head, or forward end, of the boys’ table as chief boatswain’s mate. The talk was very animated and rather loud, for, of course, the boys felt the pleasant excitement of new surroundings and unaccustomed conditions. Some of them were shy and a little awkward on account of the strangeness of things they had never seen before; but, under the influence of good food and good humor, they all gradually unbent, and the boys of each section soon felt at home with one another. Of course it was the business of the boatswain’s mates to help this feeling along as much as possible, so that they could get the best work out of their men; for it is a rule, both on land and sea, that the best work is done when the men who work together do it in a friendly and a happy spirit. This, you will remember, is what Mrs. Perkins had learnt from her father, the captain of the Sally Smart. She had taught it to Jack, and Jack had taught it to the other boatswain’s mates.

Before dinner was over, Dick noticed the new watch go on deck to relieve the old one, and the old watch come down to take their share of the good things. By the time all the boys had returned on deck, it seemed to him that they had gone about half the way to their anchorage at Hull. The remainder of the afternoon was spent principally in putting their belongings in order and in asking questions about the different parts of the ship and their uses. By half-past four they dropped anchor at Hull, and the sails were furled; and, at five o’clock, the bugle sounded for the first General Quarters of the cruise.

First, the boys were drawn up in two rows on each side facing each other, while the setting sun threw long shadows to starboard on the deck; they were then faced about toward the quarter-deck to hear the first official words addressed to them by the Chairman of the Committee. He was a tall man with gray hair and dressed in a blue suit; you could see that he was fond of his job, and Dick thought that his eyes were noticing everything that was going on. He spoke in a clear voice that you could hear all over the ship, although it was not particularly loud, and there was absolute attention on the part of the boys.

“I’m mighty glad, boys,” said he, “to welcome you on board this ship. You know, of course, that we are here for a serious purpose. The Bright Wing is not a yacht, and we are not here just to enjoy ourselves, although we probably shall have a much better time than if we were. We are here to learn to apply the spirit of the scout law to the art of seamanship. I do not want to keep you long now, but I want to point out to you at the outset the fact that you have a real responsibility as the crew of this vessel.

“Men who are in the habit of facing danger look it squarely in the face and do not pretend that it does not exist. There is always a certain amount of risk in life at sea, although many sailors seem to think it is more dangerous to cross Washington Street or Broadway during business hours than to face the most adverse winds and dangerous currents; but, for the sake of those we have left at home, as well as for other good and sufficient reasons, the safety of the vessel is something we are bound in honor to ensure to the utmost of our ability.

“Now there are three things which are essential to this safety. The first is the soundness of the vessel and her tackle, and for this the Sea Scouting Committee, of which I have the honor to be the Chairman, is responsible; the second is the knowledge and skill of the Captain, and for this both he and the Committee are responsible; and the third is the handiness and good discipline of the crew, and for this YOU are responsible.

“Both the Committee and I are satisfied with the soundness of the vessel and her tackle, and also with the skill and knowledge of our Captain or Navigating Officer; it remains for you to prove that you are equal to the share of the responsibility which devolves upon you, and I heartily believe that you will prove yourselves worthy of the trust.”

After this the boys were dismissed until Mess Inspection and supper at half-past five.

“I say,” said a quiet boy, nudging Dick’s elbow, as they sat eating their baked beans, “that old Chairman seems to mean what he says all right.”

“Yep,” replied his companion, “you bet he does. And he expects us to toe the mark. Any duffer can see that!”

After supper Dick found the other two members of the Triangle Club, and they voted unanimously that the Chairman was “all right.”

Before prayers, the names on the Anchor Watch were posted by Mr. Miller, with particular instructions for the scout on duty, and the first watch was from eight to nine. This hour was always assigned to one of the youngest boys, and Chippie happened to be the one selected the first night on board. As soon as prayers were over, Mr. Miller hastened to join him to make sure that he understood just what his duties were, and to repeat to him the instructions already posted on the berth deck.

It was Chippie’s business to know the name of the Sea Scout who succeeded him at nine o’clock, and also the exact position of his bunk. He was to keep a sharp lookout on all sides of the vessel and to notice if anybody hailed the ship from shore. He was to watch the riding lights fore and aft and to see that they were brightly burning. He was to give notice of any boats or other vessels approaching or hailing the ship. On noticing anything that called for attention he was immediately to report to the scout master. In case of change of weather, he was to call Mr. Wilson, the mate.

He was provided with a card called the “Rough Log” ruled off into several different headings on which, before the end of his watch, he was to note down the state of the weather, the state of the sea, the cloud formations, the direction of the wind, and the direction of the ship’s head, stating the time of his observations. This card was then passed on to his successor, so that the complete record for the night contained observations for every hour.

At five minutes of nine he was to go below and wake up his successor. Then he was to return on deck and ring the ship’s bell (two bells) at nine o’clock. After that he was to remain on duty until relieved; but, if his relief failed to put in an appearance at five minutes past nine, he was to go below and turn him out of his bunk. He was then to return on deck until relieved, and under no circumstances to leave his post before the arrival of the new watch.

“Remember,” said Mr. Miller, in conclusion, “you are responsible for the safety of the ship during your watch, and you are on your honor.”

The boys had all turned in, and taps had sounded by the time Mr. Miller had finished. Left to himself, Chippie began pacing the deck, stopping every few minutes to peer out into the darkness and to listen to every sound.

The binnacle lamp was always kept burning so that the compass could be read; and, in the light of this lamp, Chippie filled out the spaces provided on the Rough Log. He wet his thumb and held it up in the air to judge which way the wind was blowing, and was surprised to find how difficult it was to make up his mind. Finally concluding that there was no wind (a fact which in his great earnestness he had failed to notice), he put down a good big zero under the heading “Direction of the Wind.”

He wet his thumb and held it up in the air to judge which way the wind was blowing. Page 52.

“Good joke,” thought Chippie; “I guess it won’t take me so long to find that out next time,” and then turned his attention to the “direction of the ship’s head”, “the state of the sea”, “the state of the sky”, etc.

Any job, when you are not accustomed to it, seems awkward, and Chippie filled out his last space with a sense of relief. Then he ran forward to look at the ship’s clock in the companionway, and found, to his surprise, that it was already one minute to nine, and he should have gone below to wake the next watch four minutes before.

But luckily the new watch had been lying awake in his bunk with his clothes on, and saved Chippie the trouble of going below by appearing at the top of the ladder just as Chippie was about to go down. So then Chippie went straight to the ship’s bell and—“ding-ding”—“two bells”—rang out into the night.

“Gee, but I’m in luck,” whispered Chippie to himself.

Then he went aft with the new watch, showed him the Rough Log and the list of directions, and finally went forward again, slipped down the companionway, and crawled into his bunk.

“I wonder if some of the other fellows will be trying to study out which way the wind is blowing!” thought Chippie as he pulled off his clothes. Then his thoughts went back to his home in Northbridge for a while; and presently the Bright Wing began rocking gently in the roll of a passing steamer. He was just awake enough to notice the motion and then sailed off to the land of dreams.

At ten o’clock it was Dick’s turn on watch. The last members of the crew ashore—the carpenter and first mate—had come aboard at half-past nine, and there were no more hails to listen for. The boats were all on their davits, the boat booms and side-ladders were up, and the Bright Wing was tucked up and snug for the night.

After Dick had finished his observations of the weather, etc., and had filled out the Rough Log, he watched the sky for a long time. He did not know the stars very well, but they had a great attraction for him. He looked around until he found the Great Dipper, which was the constellation he was most familiar with, and then the Pole-star by following the direction of the pointers. He noticed that the Dipper was to the right of the Pole-star and below it. Then he noticed the constellation called Cassiopeia—in the shape of a “W” to the left of the Pole-star and above it.

“Here’s my chance,” thought Dick, with a sudden inspiration, “to see if the northern stars do really turn around the pole like a wheel as they are supposed to do.” He then looked at the buildings on shore to find some landmark by which to test the turning of the stars. But his watch on deck was already half over, and he had not time enough to make his experiment properly. If he had been on land it would have been easier, but the ship was swinging at her anchor with the tide as it ran in, and there were no very prominent buildings in sight.

When the next boy came up to stand his watch, Dick tried to interest him in his astronomical observations, but he got no response, and so promised himself to begin his experiment in plenty of time at the very next opportunity.

CHAPTER V The First Forenoon at Anchor

At the sound of reveille the next morning, the boys were all out of their bunks in short order; and, after a cup of cocoa with some crackers, they got the gear out of the way preparatory to scrubbing the decks, and the cabin skylights and portholes were closed.

“What the dickens is the use,” said Dick to Tom, “of having all these things done on the very minute? A fellow has hardly time enough to look around!”

“That’s all right,” answered Tom, “the things have all got to be done sometime, and the quicker they’re put through, the better. There’s no sense in wasting time over the chores.”

“Right you are, Tom,” said Perkins, who was standing near, “and on board a vessel you have to be even quicker than on land; for otherwise we should be knocking our heads together—there are so many of us in a small space. That’s why things have to go like clockwork.”

While the decks were being scrubbed with salt water, the officers in the cabin heard the swish of the water up against the portholes as they were dressing below. Suddenly an exclamation was heard from the cabin companionway, immediately followed by the scout master’s whistle and the cry, “Boatswain’s Mate!”

The boatswain’s mate ran down and found Mr. Miller wiping the back of his neck which had just been soused by a stream of salt water coming through an unclosed porthole.

“Who is responsible for closing the portholes, Perkins?”

“On the starboard side, Sir? I will find out at once. It must be some one in the second division, first section.” Jack returned on deck and found the boatswain’s mate of that section. “Gray,” was the answer, “Number 4,” and Jack went back to the cabin and reported to Mr. Miller.

“Put him on report,” said he, “and bring the matter up at ‘Mast.’”

“Ay, Ay, Sir,” said Jack, and the incident was closed for the time being.

Then the scrub-deck gear was stowed, portholes and skylights were opened up again, all hands began washing, for which they were allowed four buckets of fresh water, and pretty soon, at the sound of the boatswain’s pipe, which seemed especially musical in the morning air, a lot of hungry boys—followed by their officers—went below with raging appetites.

“Colors” came immediately after, and, at the command “Attention!” every man and boy on deck stood up straight and practically motionless, facing the quarter-deck. One minute later, at the words “sound off”, it was interesting to observe the quartermaster as he held the ensign under his left arm, deftly wound up, so that it should not touch the deck or the rail, and then gave the halyard a quick haul. The ensign broke out clear and ran up to its staff head without a hitch. At the end of the bugle call, all the right hands on deck went up in salute, and then everybody was dismissed and the ceremony was over.

Morning “Colors” is the beginning of the official day on board a vessel in the Navy or in the service of the Boy Scout brotherhood. No visitors are expected on board before this time, and nobody need feel the necessity of being completely dressed before breakfast, which comes half an hour earlier. Scrubbing and washing down the decks is done in bare feet and legs with the trousers rolled up over the thighs—a custom which originated the fashion of the “bell shape” characteristic of sailors’ trousers. A ship’s company before morning “Colors” is very much like a household when people are dressing or doing early morning chores in slippers and dressing gown, the difference being that there is more “housework” to be done at that early hour on board ship. The raising and saluting of the ensign is not alone an act of respect to the flag, reminding us of the first point of the scout oath and of our duty to our country, but it is like opening the front door of a house and saying good morning to the world at large.

This is true even in a more literal sense; for, immediately after morning “Colors”, the boat booms are let down and the boats lowered—thus providing means of communication with the shore and other vessels; and, at the same time, the side-ladders, which give general access to the ship, are put in position.

For the time being—as they stood at attention during the bugle call—both Chippie and Dick had clean forgotten their little adventures of the night before. Everything was so different from the way things look during the night watches. The deck of the vessel, alive with boys and men, only arrested in their activity by the brief ceremony of “Colors”, other vessels in the neighborhood all astir with preparations for the day, the sun shining brightly in the east and reflected in the rippling surface of the water, broken only by the shadows of the hulls and their spars,—how different a scene was this from that in which Chippie had been the central figure as he stood in the dark the evening before, with not a soul in sight, solemnly holding up his thumb in the still air to see which way the wind was blowing!

All that was outside of Chippie’s thoughts now as completely as if it had never happened; but it would return again later with many other shifting scenes; and through them all there was something in the back of his mind which could always be recalled whatever his outward surroundings and circumstances might be. He had no father, and he was his mother’s only son. She was a hard-working woman who had made it possible for him to have everything he needed ever since he could remember. She had made it possible for him to come on this cruise, and he was deeply grateful to her for all her goodness. He remembered what Jack Perkins had told them that evening at his house about saluting the flag not only as the emblem of our country but also as the emblem of our duty to God; and this morning, as he stood there “at attention”, he thought to himself: “I guess the biggest duty I’ve got is to stand by my mother!”

Just before “Colors” the coxswains, who had cleaned their respective boats before breakfast, reported them to the scout master as ready for inspection; the quartermaster reported the clocks wound, and the watch was relieved.

The new watch consisted of Clarence Ellsworth, boatswain’s mate, a coxswain, a quartermaster, and five ordinary and apprentice seamen, of whom Dick Gray was one and served as messenger. This watch was on duty for four hours, from eight to twelve, and the boatswain’s mate was responsible for all the routine orders during that time. Immediately after the old watch had been relieved, Mr. Miller handed to Ellsworth a slip of paper upon which were written these routine orders. He was supposed to blow his “call” and to give his orders in a clear, audible voice and then to see that they were carried out as stated. It was the special duty of the master-at-arms to help in carrying out orders by mingling with the boys, setting them a good example, and giving the slow or lazy ones a good-natured shove ahead. The boatswain’s mate cannot be in two places at once, and the master-at-arms is a great help to him in this respect, and must necessarily be a boy of ability and character; for the master-at-arms could not possibly have the right influence with the boys if he merely tried to order them around; he is obliged to be good-humored and dignified, and to keep his mind on his job all the time. The master-at-arms at this time was admirably suited to fill all these requirements.

As the boatswain’s mate of the watch sounded the call for “Mast”, the boys all lined up on the starboard side just forward of the quarter-deck, and the captain and scout master stood facing them. Dick was the only Sea Scout on report, and was charged with not properly closing a porthole before washing decks. He pleaded guilty and was let off with a warning, as this was his first offense. All hands then joined in the “setting up” exercises before going over the masthead.

The master-at-arms was an “able seaman” by the name of Young, who came from Attleboro, an inland town, where there were few facilities for practicing seamanship; he was a boy who was earning his living and the leader of a small gang who had formed themselves into a section of Sea Scouts. He had received a good many hard knocks, and, through them, some knowledge of human nature; and there was a good-humored determination about him which made him a natural leader whom it was easy to follow. There was nothing showy about Bertie Young, but you could not have found a boy on board who did not value his regard. Nothing special was apt to occur for the master-at-arms to attend to, during the morning hours at anchor, except to exert a steady influence for order and quiet; and, without having to think of it, he habitually kept track of the time and of the messenger in ringing the ship’s bell. But one of his chief jobs came in the evening; namely, that of keeping the berth deck quiet after tattoo and taps had sounded.

At a little after half-past eleven, Young happened to look at his watch, and it struck him that he had not heard the ship’s bell sound seven bells as it should have done a few minutes before. Looking over toward the day bunk, he noticed Dick, the messenger, fooling with some of the boys who were off duty, and quietly walked up to him.

“Say, Dick,” said he, “didn’t you forget to strike seven bells?”

“No, it isn’t time yet,” retorted Dick somewhat crossly.

“You’d better look at the cabin clock and see,” answered Young. “Say, Dick,” continued the master-at-arms, “you have no business to be here on the day bunk when you’re one of the watch on duty.”

Dick flung off in a huff to look at the clock and found that he was six minutes late. Then he started forward to ring the bell and bumped up against Chippie Smith.

“Get out of the way there, Chip; don’t you see I’ve got to strike the bell? I’m six minutes late now, but I don’t care whether it’s six or sixteen! I’m tired to death of all this doing things on time and splitting the day up into seconds! It’s all bosh, I say.”

“You go and strike the bell,” retorted Chippie, “and do your talking afterwards!” And then he thought to himself:

“I guess it’s about time to have another meeting of the club. I’ll go and find Tom.”

CHAPTER VI Sports by Land and Water

The evening before, Mr. Miller had engaged the Hull baseball field for this afternoon; and, as all the boys were to be allowed liberty, some of them went down to the cabin at half-past two to ask for a little of their money which was kept in the ship’s safe. At a quarter to three the bugle sounded for liberty inspection, and a few of the greener boys were found to have tied their black kerchiefs with wrong knots, causing a laugh among the older ones.

“How do you expect your rope knots to hold, if you can’t tie your neck-gear right?” said Jack Perkins, as they all tumbled into the ship’s cutters and rowed ashore.

Mr. Miller and Perkins were chosen captains for the two teams, and Boatswain Fred Hamilton was elected umpire. Then Mr. Miller and Jack began choosing their men alternately; and, as they stood in two bunches opposite each other, “the Blues” and “the Reds” appeared to be fairly evenly matched.

About half a dozen boys who had not been lucky enough to be chosen for the teams, sat on the benches and improvised score cards, hoping that some of them might be called upon as substitutes before the game was over. Mr. Miller himself was a good player for “the Blues.” He was more than an average player, having served on his freshman nine at college, and having always gone out regularly as a candidate for the “Varsity” up to his senior year. On two or three occasions he had even played as a substitute on the “Varsity”, and was looked upon as a valuable and reliable man in reserve. “The Reds”, on the other hand, had a first-rate player in their captain, Jack Perkins, who, besides being a prize-winner at track athletics, had served as captain of his class nine at the Northbridge High School.

Both Mr. Miller and Jack usually took the position of catcher. Mr. Graham Wentworth, the assistant scout master, was made pitcher for the “Reds”, and Clarence Ellsworth pitcher for the “Blues.”

At the toss up, the “Blues” won their first innings and went in with Mr. Miller at the bat. He knocked a swift grounder, which was picked up by the shortstop, Tom Sheffield, and thrown to first base, so that Mr. Miller was put out at the very beginning of the inning. Chippie Smith, who was sitting on the benches, climbed up and waved his hat frantically at this good play of his chum’s, and the spectators, who had now begun to gather around the stands, gave a round of applause. Tom was surprised at himself, and began muttering “steady, now, steady!” to keep from getting excited.

Mr. Miller felt rather queer as he sat down on the grass and watched Ellsworth go to the bat. The latter helped the situation for the “Blues” somewhat by making a two-base hit to left field. He held second base all right, and the “Blues” felt a little better. Ellsworth, however, tried to steal third, but was put out by a pretty cross-diamond throw from the pitcher, Mr. Wentworth. This made two out for the “Blues”, and it looked as if the first inning was to end unluckily for them. Nobody scored, that inning, until all had been at the bat excepting Dick Gray, who got his first base on a “single” to right field, but then, to the astonishment of everybody, kept on running to second. Guy Plummer, who was playing right field, picked the ball up quickly and threw it to second, at just about the same time that Dick dove forward on the ground to touch the base. The second baseman, Sidney Malloy, was a good player but rather a small boy, and immediately turned to the umpire and claimed that Gray was out; but Dick gave him a dig in the ribs; and, at the same time grabbed the base, loudly claiming that he had made good.

Dick dove forward on the ground to touch the base. Page 70.

The umpire took a few minutes to consider, and then decided that Gray was “not out.” Plummer had been in a pretty good position to see what had actually happened and he thought it was a clear case of “out”; at the same time, it was quite possible that Gray had honestly believed that he had touched the base before the ball was caught. Nobody really had any unpleasant feeling over the incident, except Malloy, the second baseman, and Mr. Wentworth, who from the pitcher’s box had noticed the ugly look in Dick’s face when he told the small-sized second baseman to “shut up!”

This made “three out” at the end of the first half of the first inning. The “Reds” only made one run in their half, and this was scored by Perkins on a “three-bagger” to left field, caught, but dropped, by the left fielder. During the next four or five innings no very remarkable work was done on either side. There was some good hitting, but the fielding was rather poor; and, at the beginning of the sixth inning, the score stood at seven to six in favor of the “Reds.” During this inning, however, Mr. Wentworth began improving in his pitching. He seemed to have got his second wind and threw his balls with a kind of regular swing, and with greater swiftness and accuracy.

One of the “Blues” was put out on three strikes and Clarence Ellsworth struck a ball which went almost straight into the air, and was well judged and caught by the second baseman, Malloy, who had previously been roughly handled by Dick.

After this the “Reds” began to forge ahead still further, and the hopes of the “Blues” were finally dashed when Mr. Miller, after having made a two-base hit, was put out on third,—the final score being eleven to six in favor of the “Reds.”

Thus ended the first game of the season for the “Blues” and the “Reds” of the Bright Wing; and, after cheering one another and giving the Boy Scout yell, they started to walk through the town on their way back to the dock.

The long boat, with Mr. Miller on board and Tom Sheffield as coxswain, got under way first; and, as the ship was about half a mile from the shore, it gave the boys a good chance for a stretch after their game. The two other boats started together about seven minutes after the long boat, and the idea of a race occurred to the two coxswains at the same moment. Mr. Wentworth, the officer in command, gave his assent. The two coxswains, Chippie Smith and Sidney Malloy, looked their men over carefully with a view to balancing the boats; and, after one or two changes of position, it was agreed that Mr. Wentworth should give the word. The latter picked out the corner of a certain building on one side of the bay and the mast of a ship lying at anchor on the other side. The imaginary line connecting these two points would be about at right angles to the course the boys would have to row to get to the Bright Wing. Mr. Wentworth ordered the two bow men to report when both bows were as nearly as possible on this line with their heads turned in the direction of the ship; and, after a little backing and pulling, with the boats about a hundred feet apart, Mr. Wentworth gave the order, “Stand by;—give way together!”

Once started, Mr. Wentworth, of course, said nothing more, but, in his seat in the stern, next the coxswain, left the management of the boat entirely to him.

“Easy, now! Easy!” called Chippie, as his men, in their haste to get away, began interfering with one another, instead of pulling all together.

Malloy’s crew made a little better start, for he had taken pains to warn them to go easy for the first six strokes until they had got the rhythm of the oars into their heads and bodies.

By the time Chippie’s men had got out of their little mess, Malloy’s boat was about a length ahead; and, after that, both crews settled down to work with a good steady swing.

In such a short race as this, one boat’s length at the start was of some importance, and Chippie felt that they must do their best to make up for the loss as quickly as possible. It was not a question of keeping strength in reserve, as he would have done if there had been a mile to row instead of a half-mile.

The Bright Wing was lying broadside on to them, and it had been agreed that they would row across her bow,—the first boat going across being the winner. They knew, of course, that there would be plenty of boys on board who would crowd into the jib netting to act as judges.

Both coxswains were counting steadily to keep the rowing smooth and even, and Chippie’s boat had already caught up to the extent of half a length, when an angry exclamation escaped one of the boys who had “caught a crab”, and, at the same time, lost his balance—tumbling over backwards with his feet in the air.

“All but Number Three keep on rowing,” cried Chippie. “Easy, there, Number Three! You must not pull the boat around. All right, Dick. Now, all together,—keep stroke! One, two!—one, two!—one, two!—” Thanks to Chippie’s presence of mind, the incident had only cost them one boat’s length, so that they found themselves a length and a half behind the other boat, instead of half a length, as they had been before.

“It was your fault, Guy,” muttered Dick under his breath, to the boy behind him.

“Keep your mouth shut and your oar going, Dick,” cried the coxswain; “we’ve got to save this race first, and you can blame other people afterwards.”

Some of the boys in the other boat, when they had noticed Dick’s mishap, had begun to laugh and sensibly slackened up their pace. Chippie noticed this, and it gave him a new interest in gathering his men together to do their best.

“Now, boys,” said he, in a low but distinct tone, “pull yourselves together, and we may win out yet. The other crew have begun wool-gathering, and that will give us a chance either to win or make it a tie.”

Then, “one, two!—one, two!—” he began his firm rhythmical count, and every boy in the boat felt the effect of Chippie Smith’s quiet determination.

In another minute the chuckling boys of the other crew were surprised to notice that they were only a half length ahead. Then they stopped grinning, and Malloy got back on his job, which he realized he should never have left for a moment.

But now it seemed that they had come too near to the goal to recover themselves entirely. Chippie Smith’s boat had too strong a headway, and the whole crew were working together like animated clockwork. They managed to cross the line practically at the same time as their opponents, and the question of which boat actually was the winner had to be referred to a committee of three boys who were in the jib netting at the finish. The race was so close that the committee itself was not unanimous, although Chippie Smith’s boat was declared the winner by the distance of a mere hair’s breadth.

When it was all over, Mr. Wentworth sent for Chippie and shook hands with him.

“I call that pretty work, Smith; you were in a hard position when that mistake was made, and you held your men together well.”

Chippie was standing at attention and brought his hand up to salute. There was no mistake about the “smile of the scout” on his face at that moment. It was more eloquent even than his hearty “Thank you, sir!”

The interest in the race had been so keen among both officers and boys that the memory of the baseball game was almost cast into the shade.

Sidney Malloy’s crew were a little ashamed of themselves, but they were foremost in their appreciation of the grand way in which their opponents had rallied and made such a fine showing at the end.

All the boys in Chippie’s crew felt that they owed their victory—such as it was—to the coxswain, and were for carrying him on their shoulders around the deck, but Chippie got away and climbed up the mast to the crosstrees, from which superior strategic position he threatened to annihilate any one who should be so bold as to pursue him.

After Chippie had come down and the excitement had begun to subside, he began to feel uncomfortable about Dick, and wondered what was the matter with him. He thought about the incident of the bell, and then about Dick’s accident in the boat.

“I never saw him so awkward in a boat before,” thought he, “I wonder what’s got into him?”

Then he thought of the meeting on Duck Island when they had all three agreed to keep one another up to the scout standard, and felt troubled and unhappy. He went off to talk it all over with Tom.

The only other member of this crew who was not happy was Dick Gray himself, and it was hard to make out just what was the matter with him. In talking him over with the Chairman, Mr. Wentworth remarked:

“I can’t quite make that boy out, sir. He may need some special help. I can’t make out his signals.”

CHAPTER VII Under Way for Marblehead

Immediately after reveille next morning, the boys were surprised to hear the boatswain’s call followed by the command to “stand by to set sail.” The boatswain’s mates “got busy” very quickly and could be seen sending their boys to different parts of the deck,—some to the bowsprit to remove the jib stops, some to the fore boom to release the foresail, and the others to the parts of the ship to which they belonged.

After the fore and main sails had been set, all hands were ordered forward to the windlass and began hauling up the anchor. It was hot work, and there was not room enough for all the boys to get on to the job at the same time; but Dick managed to get on among the first, while Tom and Chippie were in the outside ring who stood ready to jump in and “spell” their comrades. Then,—after the anchor had been broken from the ground,—came the manning of the halyards,—first the main, then the fore, and then the jumbo and the jib halyards.

As the head sails ran up, they were filled by a light northwest breeze which somewhat tempered the heat. The night had been very warm, and the boys were all glad to get up on deck and very much interested in the prospect of sailing; the reef-points beat a cheerful tattoo on the canvas, as it quietly slatted back and forth, while the ship’s bow headed westward to pass through the gut into the outer harbor. Once outside, she settled down to a long leg on the port tack, and then the anchor was hoisted up and lifted over the rail.

While this was going on, Jack Perkins was active in seeing that the boatswain’s orders were carried out. The mate stood on the quarter-deck giving his commands, while the boatswain repeated them forward with the musical accompaniment of his call. Jack not only had his own division to look after, but it was his business also to see that the other B. M.’s were on their jobs, and that every scout of every division was doing his allotted work.

This was the first time that the crew had performed this particular manœuvre, and it was not surprising that there was a hitch here and there. Some small boys would stand looking on while the others were hauling on the halyards, but on inquiry it was found that they were under the impression that only the “huskies” were considered worthy of this work. This idea was quickly dispelled, however; and, before the mainsail was finally set, every available boy was on the halyards, each one contributing his share of the pull, however small it might be. Other boys who hesitated were mostly green hands who had not caught the spirit of acting together, while one of the little fellows was found in the jib-net admiring the view, and another curled up on the day bunk reading a book. Altogether it was a good opportunity for Mr. Miller to distinguish the wool-gatherers from the workers, but he felt sure that it was only practice that was needed to get this crew pulling together in true and shipshape style.

By this time it was 7:45, and there was just time to scrub decks and then wash up before breakfast. It was a pleasant thing to hear the trill of the boatswain’s call as the mess cooks scrambled down to set the tables; and better still to sit down to breakfast after the early morning’s work.

The breeze was not strong but held out steadily while the routine work was going on, and also through “quarters” and “mast.” At “quarters” the “lucky bag” was brought out for the first time and was found to contain a jumper, a couple of towels, and a lanyard and knife. Mr. Miller explained the principle of the “lucky bag” as follows:

“The master-at-arms will pick up everything that he finds lying about the decks and put it in the ‘lucky bag’; they may remain in the bag at the discretion of the sea scout master until he decides to open it at ‘quarters.’ At this time articles lost may be claimed by those who have missed them, but a penalty may be imposed upon the owner before the lost article is returned to him. As this is the first time the ‘lucky bag’ has been opened on this cruise, no penalties will be exacted on the return of these articles. The Sea Scouts are warned that in the future they will be expected to be shipshape in their habits, and that articles left carelessly lying about will not be returned to their owners until due penalty in the shape of extra duty has been paid.

“But there is another matter to which I must call your attention at the present time. It is one thing to approve of discipline in theory and quite another to submit to it in practice. Most of you boys are familiar with stories of good seamanship, but very few of you have ever experienced before this cruise the training which made such seamanship possible. Almost everybody is naturally lazy, and doing things on time is irksome and disagreeable to lazy people. ‘Oh, I guess to-morrow’ll do as well’, or ‘All right, I’ll be there in a few minutes’—these are the common expressions of lazy lubbers who have not yet learnt to like the promptness and alertness which good seamanship requires. I warn you boys of this now, at the beginning of the cruise, because I know the temptation comes to almost every one, and you might as well give up the idea of being Sea Scouts unless you are morally strong enough to clear all such lazy stuff out of the way. Orders must be carried out on the run and on the jump, and there is no room for a grouch on board of this ship.

“Since this cruise started, I have seen some boys hanging back and doing their work in a poor-spirited way; I did not always blame them, because I knew they were acting from ignorance and did not yet know the absolute necessity on board ship of a prompt and cheerful spirit. But, after this, I shall expect all hands to put their best foot foremost and to show that they have in them the making of good sailors and Sea Scouts.

“Those who are not able to live up to this standard will loaf their way along until they drop out,—maybe at the next port we make. They will not come on another cruise and they will have missed all the training as well as all the fun and enjoyment that comes from putting your heart into your work and doing what you have to do with all your might.”

While Mr. Miller was talking, you could see some of the boys here and there straighten up in sympathy with his words. Tom and Chippie, especially, looked at one another significantly and hoped that Dick was taking it all in as eagerly as they were. But they were disappointed, for the grouchy look on Dick’s face had not cleared away.

The instruction that morning was “Knots and Splices”, “Boxing the Compass”, “Ship’s Rigs”, and “Chart-work with the Captain.” Tom liked the chart-work best and found no difficulty in remembering the symbols for lights, buoys, shoals, etc., and felt as if he were on a cruise within a cruise, exploring the waters of some foreign land. Chippie felt most at home with his knots and splices, because it was less like studying than any of the other subjects; and both boys were surprised to find how much they had to learn about ship’s rigs. Dick, on the other hand, did not seem to take much interest in anything, and if there had been any motion of the sea he would have been suspected of being seasick.

About ten o’clock the breeze died down while they were still a good distance from Marblehead. It was hot, but as there was no swell on the water, everybody felt comfortable in spite of the heat. The boys had begun to feel at home in their new surroundings, and were too much absorbed in the interest of their work, as each division passed from one instructor to the next, to mind the discomfort of the heat.

As there was no particular hurry in getting to Marblehead, which was their destination for that day, the Captain decided not to use the launch to tow the ship unless it should become necessary toward the afternoon. So the Bright Wing lay with her sails flapping quite lazily, and with the jaws of the main gaff creaking and snarling, as it swayed from side to side, until eleven o’clock; when the bugle sounded “retreat from drill”, and there was nothing more but play and good fun until dinner time.

After dinner a change in the weather set in, in the form of gathering clouds toward the northwest, which at first were scarcely noticeable; while the ship’s band—in the form of a good Victrola—played some lively airs, in which the boys often joined in chorus. By about three o’clock the wind was blowing in light but sudden gusts and the clouds in the northwest had gathered thickly, with streamers extending overhead, indicative of more wind.

Jack climbed up into the crosstrees to take a good look at the sky and reported to the Captain, when he came down, that there was smoke in the direction of Marblehead, but he could not make out whether it was at Marblehead itself or beyond. Pretty soon the smoke became quite perceptible on deck as the wind increased to a fresh breeze.

The Captain sent word to the Chairman; and, as soon as he came on deck, he noticed the cloud of smoke which was now quite conspicuous in the northwestern sky, and stretching like a long streamer over the sea.

“There may be something for us to do when we get to Marblehead,” said he to Mr. Miller, who was standing by. “It must be a big fire to cause so much smoke as that.”

For the next half-hour the Bright Wing bounded along in a spanking breeze, and every boy on board felt the new exhilaration and life of the wind and motion. It did not take them long to get into port, and they dropped anchor in Marblehead harbor at about a quarter of four. The boys were all at their places for lowering the sails; but, once lowered, they were ordered to make them only temporarily secure with the stops, without careful furling, in view of the Chairman’s haste to get ashore and on to the scene of the fire as quickly as possible. It was decided to leave one of the four sections on board to finish the furling and make all fast, and then to follow the rest of the company; these got into the boats as soon as they could be lowered, and headed for the nearest wharf.

Dick appeared to have got over his grouch during the day, and his section was the first to leave the ship.

CHAPTER VIII The Salem Fire

As soon as the main party arrived at the landing they inquired eagerly where the fire was, and learned very soon that it was in Salem, and had started in the northwestern section of the city.

Marblehead lies about southeast from Salem, and the wind was blowing from west to east, veering to northwest,—so that the fumes of smoke, driven by blasts of heated air, kept pouring over the houses of the little old-fashioned town, making the atmosphere decidedly disagreeable in the streets below.

Mr. Miller was in command of the company; and, after a brief consultation between himself, Mr. Wentworth, and the boatswain’s mates, it was decided to separate into divisions, to march within easy call of one another toward Salem, and to reach, if possible, the headquarters of the Salem Fraternity or Boys’ Club. Here, they felt, they would be sure to find other boys with their leaders who could give them all the information they required and plenty of work to do.

The distance to Salem was about four miles; and, during the second half of their walk, the smoke became thicker and hotter. Here and there burning embers, carried by the wind, fell along the road and on the roofs of adjoining houses. All along the streets people were hurrying from one place to another in more or less excitement; and, on the housetops, groups were busy wetting down their roofs and putting out burning cinders. A little later they came upon piles of furniture on the sidewalks, and furniture vans carrying the household possessions of families to places of safety. The activity increased as they entered the city proper. As they walked northward, the wind and smoke came from a direction on their left; and, as they advanced nearer to the heart of the fire, they could see the flames springing out of the wreckage below, spreading from one house to another under the influence of the wind; could hear the crash of falling buildings, and watch great showers of sparks and burning material being carried along by the gusts of air.

Presently they found themselves surrounded by a crowd of people, and the order was passed along to each division to walk in Indian file. Tom Sheffield was the last boy in the line and suddenly his attention was attracted by a knot of people that had gathered quickly around some one who was lying in the street. This had happened after the other scouts had got well ahead of him, so that he was the only one who had noticed the occurrence. He ran quickly up to the spot and saw a woman lying in the midst of the group with broken pieces of crockery all around her and a large spot of blood on the left sleeve of her white shirt waist. Her eyes were closed, and her face was pale. An elderly woman held her head on her lap but was evidently frightened and did not know what to do. A little child in the crowd was crying excitedly, and at the same time a man called out, “Get a doctor, somebody,—she’s bleeding to death!”

Tom then quickly ripped up her sleeve with his knife and laid the wound bare. He saw at once from the pulsations and color of the blood that an artery had been severed. He then felt in his pocket for his first-aid kit but found that he had left it behind. Quickly he whipped out his pocket handkerchief and folded it over to serve as a bandage, tying it tightly above the wound. He then exerted even more pressure by inserting a lead pencil and twisting the bandage around. When the crowd noticed that the blood had stopped flowing, there were exclamations of surprise.

“Good for you, sonny,” called out the burly man.

“He’s one of them Boy Scouts,” remarked another, “you can tell by the suit he wears.”

“Come,” called out Tom, “you fellows had better stop talking and hurry up the doctor. Has anybody gone for him?”

“That’s all right, son; here he is now.”

And a brisk young man stepped out of an automobile that had just slowed up at the outskirts of the little crowd.

After a glance at the improvised bandage and tourniquet, the doctor nodded at Tom with a smile and went back to get more permanent apparatus out of his bag. This was quickly applied and then, after asking a few questions and learning that the woman’s house had been burnt down, he lifted her up in his arms, and carried her to the automobile.

“Here, you Scout! I want your help. Jump into the automobile and support her head as I lift her in.”

Tom instantly obeyed, and the next minute the patient’s head was resting upon his shoulder, and the doctor was driving the car to the Beverly Hospital. Once there the attendants took charge under the doctor’s orders; and, left to himself, Tom began to wonder how he could best communicate with Mr. Miller.

He decided to telephone from the hospital to the Salem Fraternity, and leave a message there; and, as he was coming out of the telephone booth, he ran across the doctor who had come from the wards to telephone himself.

“Oh! Hullo!” cried he, addressing Tom with a hearty greeting, “I was afraid you had run away, Scout; I wanted to shake hands with you and compliment you on your work. But we doctors are beginning to take good work for granted, when we see your uniform.”

Tom laughed. “I guess the good work wouldn’t stay good long,” said he, “if we were to bank on the uniform.”

“Where are you going now?” asked the doctor. And, when Tom had explained, he continued, “I’ll drive you to the Fraternity building myself, and probably we shall get there about as soon as your troop does. I’m sorry we had to drive that poor woman so far, but the Salem Hospital is partly burnt. She bore the journey all right, however; she had just regained consciousness when I left, and I will call up and inquire about her this evening.”

After another half-hour’s drive, during which Tom was much impressed by the distress of the people and the great amount of work to be done, they arrived at the Fraternity building, and he at once reported to Mr. Miller.

When Tom had bolted toward the crowd surrounding the fainting woman, his absence had not been noticed because so many things were happening on all sides. The main body of boys soon came to a place where they had an unobstructed view of the fire and where the people were standing in a compact mass looking on at the awe-inspiring but brilliant scene. The street, however, was blocked, and the people were not allowed to approach any nearer to the fire. Many of them were excited; and, every now and then, two or three would surge forward in advance of the line, pushing ahead of them a rope that had been roughly secured to bar the way. As the boys approached the scene, they heard a voice calling out: “Stand back! Stand back!” and Jack Perkins a few moments later called out:

“Say, boys, we are not the only scouts here!”

Dick Gray was near the front, behind Jack, and there were two or three rows of people tightly pressed together ahead of him, so that he could not see what was going on in the front, but he ducked down and got through between their legs and saw a Boy Scout, with a patrol leader’s badge in his hat and staff in hand, guarding the line and holding back the crowd.

“Hullo, Bob!” called out Dick from somewhere near the ground. He had recognized Bob Peters of the second Beverly troop, who had made a record for high jumping at the last Boy Scout rally.

“Hullo!” called back Bob, with a grin. “What are you doing there down cellar?”

“Hunting for the fire hose!” cried Dick, quick as a wink, and disappeared behind the legs of the crowd again.

As they could not get through in this direction, it became necessary to find some other and more roundabout way, so they turned off to the right, making a semicircle and avoiding the thickest part of the smoke. Finally they came to the Fraternity building on Central Street, which was out of the path of the wind and fire.

As they entered the building, the smell of cooking attracted their attention first, and they met several boys passing through the hall carrying loaves of bread and pitchers, which they very soon discovered contained soup. While some of the scouts and other members of the Fraternity were patrolling the city in search of good turns to homeless people, others were waiting to carry supplies of food wherever they might be needed.

The superintendent of the Salem Fraternity happened to be absent at the time, and a well-known scout master, Mr. Shallack, from an adjoining town was organizing the boys for service. The first thing he had done was to requisition food and other supplies, such as kitchen utensils, etc., from a number of business men, and then he had organized an efficient soup kitchen to supply food to the many who would soon be in need.

Mr. Miller immediately offered the services of his ship’s company, and they were sent out in groups of two or three to find people who needed immediate help, and to give them whatever service was in their power.

It was not until he was arranging these groups of boys that Mr. Miller noticed Tom Sheffield’s absence and inquired of each of the other boys where they had last seen him. Ellsworth Randall was his boatswain’s mate and was really responsible, but could give no explanation.

“I don’t understand it, sir,” said he, “but I think he must have stopped to look at something, and then lost his way before he could catch up.”

“H’m,” said Mr. Miller, “that doesn’t sound like Sheffield; he’s no wool-gatherer!”

Meanwhile Dick had come up and begged that he might be allowed to go and hunt for Tom, but just then the telephone bell in the office rang.

“Some one to speak to Mr. Miller,” said the attendant, and to his intense relief, Mr. Miller heard Tom’s voice, talking over the wire from the Beverly Hospital.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he heard him say, “but I had to run and lend a hand. I’ll explain it all to you as soon as I can get there.”

CHAPTER IX Scouts to the Rescue

After Tom had returned and reported to Mr. Miller, he, Chippie, and Dick were ordered off in quest of good turns. They had been directed toward a certain street which was on the very edge of the fire; and, after they had walked ten minutes in this direction, they heard cries proceeding from a house on the opposite side of the road. They crossed over and entered the house, which was an old-fashioned single dwelling turned into a building with a tenement on each floor. Two women—one elderly and the other comparatively young—were carrying down-stairs, with some difficulty, a large trunk containing all the household goods and clothes they had managed to scrape together, while a little girl was crying passionately at the foot of the stairs:

“The kitty, oh! the kitty! We have left the kitty up-stairs and she can’t get out!”

The house had caught fire on or near the roof, and the top story was almost gone. It was a five-story house, and the fourth story was already burning, with the smoke and flames penetrating into the third; and out of this third story the two women and the little child had escaped just about in time, but leaving behind them many things they would have liked to save. Among these was the cat, of whom they had not thought until the little girl had begun crying for it at the foot of the stairs. It was too late to go back in the ordinary way, because the smoke had gathered so thickly about them that it would have been almost impossible to get through; but Chippie suddenly remembered the directions in the Boy Scout Handbook about crawling along the floor, and so getting enough air to breathe while making one’s way through a burning house. He turned to one of the women and asked her on what floor their apartment was, and then, after thinking for a moment, he said:

“I’ll see whether it’s possible to get through on my hands and knees and bring the cat out.”

“Right you are, Chip,” said Dick, “and you, Tom, take hold of that trunk and carry it out into the middle of the street, while I get around into the back yard and see if there is any way of climbing up to the windows of the third story.”

Chippie darted up-stairs, and the last they saw of him was the soles of his boots over the top step of the staircase, as he began pushing his way first on hands and knees and then crawling on his stomach. The little girl—who evidently had no anxiety for her own safety—clapped her hands with delight, while the two women looked on with satisfaction and relief as Tom took hold of the handle of the trunk and dragged it out through the door.

In the meantime Dick had run around to the back of the house; and, after looking carefully for some time along the row of windows on the third story, recognized something white in the corner, pushing up against a pane of glass. He looked steadily for about half a minute, when he saw it move, and made up his mind that it was the cat. Quickly he measured the distance to the window with his eye, and noted the fact that a stone wall ran up about four feet, and also that a rain-pipe ascended from the top of the wall up to and past the window at a distance of about two feet to the left. If he could only climb up that rain-pipe and open the window, in case it was unbolted, he could give the cat a chance to jump upon his shoulder.

But there was something in Dick that did not want to do it; something that told him it would be a mighty unpleasant thing to slip down and get killed just then, or even to break an arm or leg. He knew what a painful thing a broken arm was, for he had been with his aunt once when she had slipped upon the ice and fallen backward, striking her elbow on the hard surface. He knew how much she had suffered, even after the arm was set, before she had regained the use of it. All these thoughts went through his mind in a flash. Then there came to him the voice of the little girl crying for her kitty; and then, again, like a quiet voice rising from somewhere inside of him, the familiar words, “A scout is brave.” It brought up the scene at prayers on the berth deck of the Bright Wing and the sound of another voice that was saying: “Without honor life is not worth living.” And all of a sudden Dick made up his mind that nothing was of any consequence to him at that moment but to save the kitten. The next instant he thought of Chippie, crawling on his way through the suffocating smoke, and ran back to the front door and up the stairs as far as he could go, calling out to him to come back, for they could rescue the cat through the window. To his surprise Chippie was already on his way out, having found it impossible to force the inner door, which was secured by a latch from within. Dick hurried him out into the fresh air and around to his station at the back of the house.

“Here, Chippie, give me a boost up this wall, and I guess I can get up the waterspout all right.”

It was difficult work, because he could not get his legs fully around the pipe, for it was too near the wall; but Dick had a pretty good knee grip from having ridden bareback at home, and he managed to hold with his knees enough of the distance that he had gained with his hands to make some headway. He would grasp with both hands and lift up his knees, and they would slide down again about half-way; but, nevertheless, he would make on an average about six inches every pull, and at the end of five minutes’ strenuous work his shoulder was above the level of the window. Here, luckily, a brick had fallen out of the wall, making a little place where he could rest one foot; and so he waited for a minute or two to get his breath before reaching out to the window. He soon recovered his wind and stretched out his hand; but, although the window was not bolted, he could not raise it because his hand was too far from the center. He then determined to break the pane of glass nearest to him; and, reaching into his pocket, pulled out his jackknife, and, with two sharp strokes, knocked a hole into the pane without injuring his hand. But his arm was not long enough to reach the kitten, and all that he could do was to hold it out within easy distance for her to step on. Kitty’s fur was bristling with fear, but it was interesting to note with what daintiness she managed to step over the broken glass on to the outer sill. Then came a few moments of apparent reflection while she seemed to be measuring the distance to a really secure footing on Dick’s shoulder. He encouraged her with his voice; and, with a single spring, she landed on his shoulder with her claws piercing through his coat and dangerously near his skin.

She seemed to be measuring the distance to a really secure footing on Dick’s shoulder. Page 109.

Then Dick began his journey downward, which was, of course, easier than the upward climb. It was a question of putting on the brakes, but did not take more than forty seconds.

In the meantime, Chippie had got most of the smoke out of his eyes, and had been watching Dick with breathless interest. Then they thought of the little girl and the two women and started off in pursuit; and they soon noticed, at a little distance, a large trunk being carried by a woman and a boy, with an old woman and a little girl accompanying them. In another minute Dick was handing the kitty to her small mistress; and, when the little girl had done all she could to show her delight, Dick and Chippie took charge of carrying the trunk to relieve Mrs. Green and Tom, and they all kept together until they reached the Common.

Here they found a large number of people who had taken refuge with their household goods and chattels; and, when they had discovered a vacant bench for the two women and the little girl, they sat down on the ground themselves to hold a council of war. It was now six o’clock and pretty near supper time. Was there room at the Salem Fraternity to give shelter to their party for the night, or was there room in any of the tents pitched on the Common? But Dick cut all these considerations short by saying:

“The first thing to do is to report to Mr. Miller, tell him all the facts, and receive our instructions. Tom, you and Chippie stand by the ladies here in case they should want anything immediately, and I will go back to the Boys’ Club. You will probably hear from me again in half or three-quarters of an hour.”

Dick reported the facts as briefly as possible to Mr. Miller, who took down the names of Mrs. Mitchell and her daughter, Mrs. Green, and listened to Dick’s description of the place on the Common where they were sitting under the protection of Tom and Chippie. After consulting with the superintendent, he told Dick to take supplies for supper, and to inform the party that they would be welcome in tent Number 6, where two other families, similarly situated, were to pass the night.

In the meantime, the fourth division from the Bright Wing had arrived, and had been at work for some time. Sleeping quarters were provided for the boys in rooms at the top of the Boys’ Club; and, when it was time for them to turn in, they felt mighty well after all their hard work, and mighty tired.

For some reason or other, Dick’s thoughts wandered away from the exciting experiences of the day, and kept returning to that game of baseball, when his touching second base had been questioned; he did not feel happy about it, and as he went to sleep, the words, “A scout is trustworthy”, kept rising up and passing through his mind.

Chippie Smith dreamed of a procession of white and black cats climbing up the waterspout to the top of a house, crossing the roof, and then quietly walking down like flies on the other side.

CHAPTER X In Marblehead Harbor

At the request of the superintendent of the Boys’ Club, the Sea Scouts remained in Salem one more day and night. By that time the militia had arrived, and the worst of the emergency was over. The fire had been put out since the night after their arrival, and the relief committee for the whole city was thoroughly organized and in working order. When they had said good-by to the superintendent and as many of their new friends as they could find at the moment, the boys started, after breakfast, on their way back to the ship. The scene was quite different from that through which they had marched on that first afternoon. There was no fire burning anywhere; and, in the high wind, most of the cinders had been blown out to sea; but there were desolate proofs of the destruction wrought in the charred and broken walls of the forsaken houses which, only a few days before, had been cheerful and comfortable homes. They passed by groups of people who were walking about inspecting the ruins, and overheard an old man saying:

“They say fire is a good servant but a poor master—and I guess they’re right. What do you say, Joe?”

Dick Gray, Tom, and Chippie walked together and talked over their adventures.

Soldiers belonging to the militia were standing sentry at different points to protect the property that had not yet been removed, and they also had charge of the street traffic, so that no carriages or automobiles that were not engaged in rescue work were permitted within the burnt district.

Dick told the other boys of the rescue of a blind man by one of the Salem scouts. The poor fellow had been found in the railway station, hearing the strange sounds and feeling the fire creeping nearer, but not knowing which way to turn. Tom, on the other hand, told them about his first-aid adventure with the woman and the doctor, of which he had not spoken previously to any one except Mr. Miller.

Then it suddenly occurred to him that, as they were all three together and practically alone, this would be a good opportunity to speak to Dick about a matter which he and Chippie had talked of together, and which had been on their minds for some days past. So Tom changed the subject rather suddenly and said:

“Dick, Chip and I have been wondering what you have had such a grouch about lately; can you tell us?”

“What do you want to know for?” answered Dick rather gruffly.

“Well,” replied Tom, “it has something to do with the law about being cheerful—hasn’t it? And aren’t we three sworn brothers-in-arms to see that we keep the law?”

Dick did not answer at once, and he didn’t seem to relish what Tom was saying. But Chippie piped up next:

“Don’t you remember, Dick, when you said you wanted to learn to keep the scout law, or bust? and we all three agreed to stand by each other?”

There was no answer, and they walked along in silence, until finally Dick said, in quite a different tone:

“Say, fellows, I’ve got something to tell you,” and in their interest to hear what he had to say, the two others stopped walking and the three heads bent forward together.

After about five minutes’ talk, they resumed their walk and soon reached the wharf. They all three had a rather troubled expression as they joined their comrades, got into the boats, rowed out to the ship, clambered up the side-ladder and saluted the quarter-deck,—all seemed in a kind of daze. Most of the other boys felt as if they had been asleep, too, and had just waked up from an exciting dream. They gathered around the day bunk, talking over the incidents of the past two days, when suddenly “first call” to quarters was sounded. This finally woke them up completely and brought them to a realization of present duty.

As they stood up in their places at quarters, there was a general inspection of clothing; some of the working suits were so badly used up as to be almost beyond repair.

Before the company was dismissed, the Chairman made a few remarks, during which he praised the work of the company in general, and told the boys there would probably be more to say on the subject after the meeting of the next officers’ conference, which would sit as a Court of Honor. It was also announced that there would be no instruction or drill for the remainder of the day, but that all the boys could go in swimming and take a rest until supper time. Wind and weather permitting, the ship was to sail for Northbridge the following morning. Everybody noticed that the Chairman and Mr. Miller were in high good humor.

There was a good swim that afternoon and a lot of frolicking in the water off the ship’s side; and, although a few of the boys were so tired that they crawled into their bunks and slept until they heard the bugle call for “mess cooks below”, most of them were gathered in groups, either on the day bunk or in the jib netting, to talk over the events of the last two days.

The chief work that the boys had done was in carrying food to people on the Common and in helping to load baggage and furniture that was taken out of the houses upon trucks and vans; and, when Chippie told the story of Dick Gray’s rescue of the white cat, some of the company took it more as a joke than anything else, and thought it was not much of a thing to do, considering how easy it was to get a cat whenever you wanted one, and how many kittens were drowned every day.

Chippie took up the cudgels for Dick and thought that it was no joke for any creature, either animal or man, to burn to death.

“If you could ask the cat what she thinks of it, I guess she’d say it was a mighty good job!”

Dick was entirely silent throughout the controversy; but, somehow or other, his mind seemed to have got the habit of recalling parts of the scout law on every possible occasion. And now, as he listened to the clamor of the talk around him, he heard again that same quiet voice which had spoken to him as he contemplated the waterspout in Mrs. Green’s back yard. This time it kept repeating the words, “Shall protect all harmless life.” Then that old idea of the baseball game and second base came jumping up into his mind again, and he thought to himself:

“Why shouldn’t I have a talk with Mr. Miller about that?” There was something queer going on in Dick’s mind that he did not quite understand himself.

At the recreation hour, after supper, there were several good sparring matches and a lot of singing; and, during one of the less noisy intervals, Dick noticed Mr. Miller standing all alone and leaning up against the foremast stays. He seemed to be quietly watching the scene in front of him, and every now and then the flicker of a smile played over his features.

“Now’s my chance,” said Dick to himself. “There’s a full fifteen minutes before prayers.”

Dick’s working trousers had been pretty badly worn on the waterspout, and he had been wondering whether he should have to patch the holes, or whether, considering the circumstances, he could get a new pair,—but it was not about his trousers that he was waiting to speak to Mr. Miller. He had a kind of sickish feeling that seemed to be getting worse and worse as time went on. He felt as if he were two boys instead of one. The boy who had been working along with Tom Sheffield and Chippie Smith all over Salem—the boy who had climbed up the waterspout, and who had beaten down the desire to shirk and be a coward—was not the same boy who had played in the baseball game at Hull. On the other hand, that boy of the baseball game seemed to be not unlike the boy who had been scared to risk his neck in saving the little girl’s cat.

It is not a pleasant thing to have two people inside of you when they are fighting with one another. And this is what seemed to be happening to Dick Gray; and the more he tried to do his duty as a scout, the more these two boys inside of him wanted to fight and kick up a dust. So, as Dick was looking at Mr. Miller standing in the dusk against the evening sky, Dick Number 1 repeated:

“I guess now is the time,” and started to walk forward in the right direction; but he hadn’t got much more than half-way toward Mr. Miller when Dick Number 2 whispered:

“Never mind about the baseball game; ask him about your working pants!” and the next moment he was standing before Mr. Miller with his hand lifted to the salute. Mr. Miller did not notice the suppressed excitement in his face, nor did he hear the thumping of his heart, as he remarked, with assumed quietness:

“I got my pants badly torn in Salem the other day, sir, and I’d like to know whether I can get another pair?”

“You coward! You coward!” whispered Dick Number 1 inside, before Mr. Miller could answer.

“Oh! let me see,” said Mr. Miller. “They are rather badly done up, aren’t they? How did you get them torn so badly?”

“Climbing a waterspout, sir,” said Dick.

Mr. Miller smiled, and then there was a little pause.

“That is not a question you should come to me with, Gray; report to your boatswain’s mate, and he will report to me for the whole section. Lots of other boys have torn their clothes.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied Dick, with a salute, and turned away.

But he did not get any fun out of the sports on deck that night, and the words, “You coward! You coward!” kept ringing in his ears.

After taps that evening there was officers’ conference in the cabin; and, when certain routine matters had been disposed of, the rescue work in Salem was talked over very thoroughly. All the boys had behaved well, and some of the little ones had done almost too much. Jack Perkins had been in immediate charge of organizing the groups and of overseeing their work, and he had managed his task so well that he had been able to make careful notes of pretty nearly everything that had been done.

This, of course, was a great help to the Court of Honor in awarding their commendations, and it was voted first that Jack Perkins should be commended at quarters the following day. Five other boys, including Chippie and Tom, who had done especially hard work in saving and carrying valuables out of burning houses, were commended, and besides it was decided to give Tom a commendation for the incident with the doctor.

Finally, the question of Dick Gray and the cat came up; and although it was undoubtedly a genuine case of saving life, a doubt arose as to whether such an act as Dick’s constituted “life saving” in its real sense.

There was an interesting discussion on this point, and it was finally decided that the meaning of “life saving”, in its connection with the merit badge, could only refer to the saving of human life, but that Dick’s act was an emphatic instance of obedience to Law Number 6:

“He is a friend to animals. He will not kill nor hurt any living creature needlessly, but will strive to save and protect all harmless life.”

The Court also found that it involved, though perhaps less conspicuously, an upright obedience to Law Number 10: “A scout is Brave.”

It was therefore decided to award Dick not the medal for “life saving”, but a special commendation.

The officers present felt that the same doubt which had arisen in some of their own minds would naturally arise in the minds of the boys, and particularly hoped that the Chairman would make the whole question clear at quarters on the following day.

When the meeting was over, all the officers seemed pleased at the result, and, after a stroll on deck, Mr. Miller and the Chairman went below.

“Good night, sir,” said Mr. Miller to the Chairman, after they were in their bunks. “Something is going on inside of that boy, Gray. There is no doubt that he did a plucky and unselfish thing, and it will probably help him to see some other things in their true light.”

“That’s just what I think, Mr. Miller; I believe in the boy. Good night,” and the Chairman turned over in his bunk and went to sleep.

CHAPTER XI Dick’s Confession

Next morning all hands were on deck at five o’clock to weigh anchor and set sail. It was a beautiful morning with a light breeze from the northeast which was just about a head wind.

The Captain was on the quarter-deck giving his orders, which were repeated by the mate a little forward of amidships. The boatswain was forward near the jib halyards, and Jack Perkins was busy looking out for his own section and watching to see that the other “B. M.’s” were doing the same thing. The master-at-arms was down below, hurrying up a couple of lazy lubbers who were inclined to dawdle instead of getting out on deck.

Mr. Wentworth stood with watch in hand ready to time the different operations for the ship’s log, and Chippie Smith, who had been detailed as recorder, waited with pencil and paper in his hand. Everything went more smoothly than usual, and the work was watched with great interest by the Chairman, who wanted the boys to grow even more skilful and efficient in handling the ship. No noise was allowed while the work of getting under way was going on,—no whistling, or singing, or anything which might possibly drown the voice of the Captain in giving orders, or of the other officers in repeating them. The consequence was that the Captain could give his commands in a comparatively low tone which was distinctly heard; and this, in itself, tended to prevent confusion.

The jib and jumbo went up respectively in three and two minutes; the foresail and the mainsail in six and eight minutes. Jack Perkins, as Chief Boatswain’s Mate, had prepared for the morning’s work the night before by holding a little council with the three other “B. M.’s” and going over with them in detail the duties and stations of the four different sections. As a result, the work was very prompt, each “B. M.” at his station with his own section listening carefully to get the orders either from the Captain or the mate, or the boatswain, according to his position on deck, and then repeating them promptly and quietly to his own boys and leading them in carrying out the manœuvre—whatever it might be.

When the anchor was hoisted, the sails caught the breeze on the starboard tack and the Bright Wing worked out of the harbor against the wind. Once outside, the breeze began to rise, and everybody felt the delight that comes from the buoyancy of the water and the freshness of the wind and spray.

“I’m glad it’s a head wind,” said Tom to Dick, who was sitting alongside him on the day bunk, “because it will take us longer to get to Northbridge, and we’ll get more of a sail.”

“You bet,” said Dick, “shouldn’t wonder if we got a spanking breeze pretty soon. I thought I saw a little water coming through a lee scupper for’ard, just now. The old ship seems to sail best on her side, anyway.”

The conversation was interrupted by the boatswain’s whistle for “scrub and wash clothes”; and all who did not belong to the watch went down and started scrubbing their clothes. In ten minutes the clothes were up on the lines, and the decks were being scrubbed—after the cabin skylight and portholes had been securely closed—with a smile in memory of Mr. Miller’s discomfiture two days before. Then came personal washing for every individual, followed by mess inspection and breakfast.

Everybody had been so busy all the early morning that the great event of the day which was to happen at quarters had been temporarily forgotten; but, after the first keen edge of appetite was satisfied, interest and curiosity asserted themselves as to what was going to be done about the work at Salem, and who was to receive awards or commendation.

Of course everybody knew that Jack Perkins had done a lot of good work, and had been responsible for seeing that orders were carried out. He was always a valuable man in any kind of business, because he never forgot things himself and always reminded his subordinates when they were apt to forget. As far as the boys could judge, they all had tried their best, but of course some had been more successful than others. As regards Dick Gray, the company were divided in opinion, some believing that the rescue of a cat would not be even mentioned in an official Order of the Day, and others asserting their belief that he would receive the medal for “life saving.” Tom and Chippie were especially earnest advocates of the value of Dick’s achievement.

“It wasn’t his fault that it was only a cat,” said they. “He would have done the same thing if it had been a boy or girl!”

Dick had been up on deck among the very first that morning and had enjoyed getting under way in the fresh morning air. He went below to breakfast with the others in high spirits; but when he heard the talk about the coming awards and so forth, it made him feel queer, and the feeling stuck to him—even after he was on deck again polishing brasses.

After the usual roll call at quarters, the “setting up” exercises caused a good deal of amusement because the deck was rather sharply inclined, and the vessel was bounding along quite briskly. Some of the green hands kept losing their footing and tumbling about, and the regular climbing over the masthead was omitted. Then came the command, “Attention,—About face”, and all turned toward the quarter-deck to hear what the Chairman was going to say.

“Boys,” said he, “I am glad we had the opportunity of going ashore at Marblehead and giving a little help at the Salem fire. It is a thing that we shall all remember, and the next chance we get we shall be able to do better because of this experience. But we must not forget that such things as these are all in our day’s work, and should be careful not to feel that we have done anything very great or exceptional in trying to help people in an emergency. It is something that our training is intended to help us to do as a matter of course, and all the different things that we do for the sake of training are made much more interesting than they otherwise would be, by using them in practical service whenever an opportunity occurs.

“But, although we want to be careful not to be vain or foolish because we have had the privilege of doing such things as it is the duty of every scout to do, when he gets a chance, we must recognize good work when we see it, so as to encourage one another to do more such work, and to do it better and better as time goes on.”

He then turned and spoke in a low voice to Mr. Miller, who immediately gave the command:

“Perkins—front and center!”

Jack immediately marched down and stood directly opposite the Chairman.

“Perkins,” said the Chairman, “the Court of Honor, especially convened to consider the work of the ship’s company at the Salem fire, have decided that your work ashore was of excellent quality and deserves the commendation of the Court. The Court commends you for carrying out your instructions promptly and with good judgment.”

Jack saluted, and, at the word of command, marched back to his regular position.

Malloy, Young, Ellsworth, and Smith were then ordered to “front and center” and stood “at attention” before the Chairman.

“It gives me pleasure to tell you, boys,” said the Chairman, “that you have been especially commended for good work at the Salem fire.”

All saluted, and at the words “About face—march”, from Mr. Miller, returned to their positions with a grin upon their faces.

Then Tom was ordered forward, and received a commendation for efficient first-aid work in helping to save a woman by stopping the flow of blood from a severed artery. There was general surprise at Tom’s first-aid commendation, for none of the boys knew about the incident except Dick and Chippie.

“Just like him,” muttered Malloy; “with all his talk about Gray and the cat, he hasn’t let on about himself at all!”

“Gray, front and center,” was the next command.

Dick took his position “at attention” before the Chairman, with the most solemn face you could possibly imagine.

“Boys,” said the Chairman, addressing them all together, “the Court finds that the case of Gray is somewhat different from the others and requires special attention. Not only did he do good work in helping in a rescue and in moving belongings to a place of safety, but he actually saved life, although the life was only that of a little animal,—a little girl’s pet. The regular medal for ‘life saving’ could not be awarded in such a case, because that is reserved as a reward for the saving of human life only; for, while the law recognizes the sacredness of all harmless life, it makes an important distinction between the value of human life and that of an animal. However, the qualities of unselfishness and courage which Gray has shown in saving a kitten from the third story of a burning house are qualities which he or any other would need in saving human life under similar circumstances.”

While the Chairman was saying these words, Mr. Miller was watching Dick’s face attentively, for it was getting paler and paler, more and more troubled.

“The Court, therefore,” resumed the Chairman, “not only commends”—here the Chairman paused as he noticed the expression on Dick’s face.

“What’s the matter, Gray?” he asked kindly, in a low voice.

“I—I—can’t take it!” muttered Dick. “Don’t ask me now. May I speak to Mr. Miller for a minute?”

All this had been said in an undertone, and the whole company was stirred by a feeling, partly of curiosity, and partly of discomfort. Mr. Miller was standing within earshot, and the Chairman nodded to him. Then Mr. Miller beckoned to Dick and led him down the ladder into the cabin.

The boys were then ordered to remain “at ease”, and every one looked at his neighbor as if to say:

“I wonder what is going to happen next?”

Presently Mr. Miller appeared on deck again and reported to the Chairman in a low voice; and, in a few minutes more, he went back to get Dick, and they both stood alongside the Chairman.

The general feeling of suspense by this time had grown extremely acute, when the Chairman said:

“Boys, Gray has asked permission to say something to us all before we go on with awarding the honors. I ask you to listen to him with careful attention. His only object in talking to you now is to do his full duty as a Boy Scout under very trying circumstances.”

Dick had had a good, frank talk with Mr. Miller in the cabin below, and had cleared his mind of a weight that had been pressing down on him for some time past, although he had not, until that morning, faced the necessity for action with perfect clearness. He now had determined to make a clean breast of the whole matter and to accept his just penalty—whatever that might be—like a man.

“I want to say, fellows,” said he, “that the umpire was wrong in the game at Hull, when he decided in my favor about second base. I never touched it. I got around to third and then home without ever having come within six inches of second base, except after I had been fairly put out. I haven’t any excuse; I knew it was wrong, but I did not know how wrong it was. I have done other things like that before, and I thought they were smart. Now you know it, and maybe I shall lose my scout badge. I have lost the right to wear it, anyway, and you can see as well as I that I can’t accept any honor for what happened at Salem.”

He then turned to the Chairman, who said with a very quiet voice:

“You may go below for the present, Gray.”

The Chairman, Mr. Miller, and Mr. Wentworth then consulted together, and finally asked Jack Perkins to join them. The whole company was impressed by the solemnity of the incident. The Chairman explained to the boys that the question of awarding an honor to Gray under the present circumstances must be reconsidered in the light of his confession.

“But,” said he, “I can assure you of one thing: however wrong Gray has been in the past, I respect him for his straight-forwardness to-day. Let me warn you boys against treating this matter in any way that might appear to be mean or disrespectful to a fellow scout. It would be a base and brutal thing to treat lightly such humiliation as this.”

Judging from the faces of the boys as they separated when they were dismissed, it seemed as if the warning of the Chairman were hardly necessary. They were all sorry for Dick and greatly surprised, but owing to his frank and public confession, they had a feeling of confidence that everything would turn out right in the end.

CHAPTER XII Another Meeting of the Club

During the evening recreation hour, when everybody was on deck, Tom, Chippie, and Dick had a quiet talk below, sitting on Tom’s locker. Each one of the three felt the urgent need of their getting together and talking over, with the utmost frankness, everything that had happened since the morning of the baseball game at Hull; but now that they were sitting alone face to face, there did not seem so very much to say after all, because of their talk on the way back from Salem and Dick’s manly confession before all the boys.

“I’m glad you came out with it all, this morning, Dick,” said Tom. “It must have hurt to have all the fellows know about it, and there was nothing to force you to tell except your honor.”

“Yes,” chimed in Chippie, “you might have covered it up and taken the commendation, and no one would have been any the wiser!”

“Yep,” retorted Dick, with a grim look, “but how do you think I would have felt? Don’t you suppose that dirty trick I played at Hull would have gnawed inside of me? I don’t suppose you fellows know how much it hurts—when you have a right to know better. If it hadn’t been for our talk on the way back from Salem, and the cat, and all that they brought up to me about honor and the scout law, maybe I might have forgotten the Hull business—for the time, anyway; but I’m mighty glad I didn’t. Say, boys,” said he, with a sudden gleam of animation, “it’s like when you’ve eaten something that goes against you; you can’t get right till you’ve thrown it up!”

“To-morrow is Sunday,” said Tom, “and we expect to drop anchor in Northbridge to-night. All hands are going ashore to church in the morning, and there’s liberty in the afternoon. What do you fellows say to a meeting of the Club on Duck Island?”

“A-1!” answered Dick.

“Bet your life!” exclaimed Chippie, “I’d like to hear that story over again about ‘After you, pilot’, and the fellow that went down the manhole. I say, Tom, I think we ought to write that out and keep it in a secret and safe place in the shack. I’m thinking we may like to remind ourselves of that story once in a while. You see this time it was Dick that made a break, and I guess it was because he forgot all about his oath in the excitement of the game. But maybe next time it would be you or me, Tom, that would be tempted in some such way. We might as well be prepared for the worst, and then the enemy can never catch us asleep.”

“You’re a good one, Chip,” cried Dick, and gave his comrade a thump on the back. “That makes me feel that we’re working together, and that the Club is a real live thing. Before you said that, I had a sneaking feeling that nobody could be as bad as I was, and that makes a fellow feel kind of washed out and discouraged.”

“Now it’s time to go on deck, for the fellows will be coming down to prayers in a few minutes,” said Tom. “We’ll write that story out carefully with ink in the shack to-morrow afternoon”; and, as they approached the companionway, Chippie gave Dick a shove up ahead of them and whispered in his ear: “After you, pilot!”

There were only a few minutes to wait on deck before prayers, and Dick felt relieved and refreshed, first, because the load of unacknowledged guilt had rolled off him and had seemed to sink to the bottom of the sea; and secondly, because he felt the respect and sympathy of his brothers-in-arms. Dick Number 1 was in the saddle, and ready for action.

They came to anchor at Northbridge at about nine o’clock that evening, and the next morning all hands landed and went to church. The Northbridge boys then joined their families for dinner, while the others returned on board and landed again in the afternoon to take a hike through the surrounding country. Tom, Dick, and Chippie met, according to their agreement, at the shack on Duck Island at four o’clock.

“You call the meeting to order, Tom,” said Chippie, “that’s your business; and, as Dick’s brother was the one who told us the story, I vote Dick had better tell it to us the best he knows how, only slowly—and I’ll write it down, and you can tell us when you think we’re off the track.”

“Chip’s a pretty good manager, eh, Dick?” said Tom. “Here he orders me to call the meeting to order and then goes on and tries to run it himself! What do you think of that, sonny?”

“All right, Tom, it’s your show,” said Chippie, “only for goodness’ sake, begin.”

“This meeting will now come to order,” said Tom solemnly. “Does everybody agree to what Chippie has said? If so, get your pen and paper ready, Chip, and you, Dick, begin the story.”

There was a pause, and then Dick asked: “What was the name of the ship?”

“Tecumseh,” said Tom.

“Write that down, Chip,” said Dick, “the name of the ship was Tecumseh”; and then he went on with the facts of the story, helped along by suggestions from Tom and Chippie. It took them quite a long time to get through, but finally they came to the last sentence: “And so Captain Craven gave up his life to do his duty as a good scout, and to keep his oath and law; and so, to remind them of his brave and courteous act, the officers of the Navy have the custom of saying, ‘After you, pilot’ when one of them steps back to make way for another; and also, because we want to be reminded of his brave and courteous act and faithfulness to his oath and law, we—the members of the Triangle Club of Duck Island—have written out this story to read once in a while, and have taken ‘After you, Pilot’ as our motto.”

“I move,” cried Chippie, “that we adopt this as the charter of the Club.”

“What’s a charter?” asked Dick.

“It means what the Club’s about,” said Chippie quickly.

“Well, if that’s so,” answered Dick, “I think there ought to be something else in the Charter.”

“What’s that?” asked the others eagerly.

“Why, what we said in the beginning, when we first read the story, that each one of us pledges himself to do his best, first, to keep the law himself as well as he can, and then to help the others to do the same thing; and—not only that—but each one will tell any other, when he sees him sliding off, the way you talked to me coming back from Salem.”

Dick’s motion was unanimously agreed to, and then all three stood up and took hold of hands to confirm their pledge, thus also forming the triangle which was the symbol of the Club. They then all three solemnly signed the document, affixing their scout signs:

CHAPTER XIII A Green Hand

While the meeting of the Triangle Club was going on at the Grays’ farm, Mr. Wentworth went ashore with the yeoman,—Bob Brackett—to meet a new boy who was to join the ship that afternoon.

As soon as they had arrived at the landing, however, they were approached by a tall, elderly man who looked as if he had come from the country, and had rather a small boy at his side in the Land Scout uniform.

“My name is Jackson,” said he, addressing Mr. Wentworth, “and I have brought my nephew, William Brown, for whom, I understand, a berth has been reserved on the Bright Wing.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Mr. Wentworth cordially, “and I am very much obliged to you for being on hand so promptly, for you have saved me the trouble of looking you up at the hotel.”

After shaking hands, Mr. Wentworth turned to Brown with a friendly nod, and then, facing Bob, he said:

“This boy with the mail bag, Brown, is our yeoman, and we shall have to wait until he has been to the post office, before returning to the ship. Do you think, Mr. Jackson, that your nephew would like to go to the post office with the yeoman? It might be pleasant for him to make friends with one of the crew before he goes aboard.”

Mr. Jackson assented, and Billy Brown saluted awkwardly by throwing his arm out on one side and then bringing it up to the back of his head. “He’s a queer duck,” thought Bob, but his meditations were interrupted by Mr. Wentworth.

“You can go now, Yeoman, and be as quick as you can. Remember you are on duty, and you have no other errand but to post the outgoing and to fetch the incoming mail.”

Mr. Wentworth spoke with decision; but his tone was so friendly that any boy would have felt inclined to obey him.

The two scouts went off together at a smart pace; and, as they walked up the street, Mr. Wentworth noticed a great contrast in the way they held themselves. The same thought seemed to have entered Mr. Jackson’s mind.

“I’m in great hopes,” he said, “that the drill and discipline on the Bright Wing may improve Billy’s physical condition. He is a studious boy, but he does not get enough fun or activity out of doors.”

“I understand, sir,” said Mr. Wentworth; “he has an intelligent face and a good bright eye, but his body isn’t well gathered together. He seems to have a little stoop in the shoulders. For how long is he to be on board, sir?”

“His berth is engaged for two weeks, but if there is room for him, he might possibly stay longer.”

“Well,” said Mr. Wentworth, “a good deal can be done in two weeks if a boy is intelligent and willing,—I mean in the way of a start. A good brain and willing disposition are the best sort of help to a boy for getting his body into shape; for, if he can get a strong idea of physical balance into his mind, it will give him an interest in keeping his body up to the mark. But, of course, he needs practice and exercise, too. I understand, sir, that you are also coming on board?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Jackson, “I’m going as far as Provincetown, and then I shall have to take the train for home. I have not had a good sail for many years, and am looking forward with great pleasure to being on a Boy Scout ship.”

Mr. Wentworth was very glad of this opportunity to find out the special needs of the new boy, and he looked forward particularly to reporting everything he had learned to the Chairman and Mr. Miller.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” thought he to himself, “if we made a good light-weight boxer of the lad before he leaves the ship; but the main thing is to teach him to gather himself together and to swim and row well.” He had a quick eye for such things.

The conversation had not continued much longer when Bob and Billy reappeared with a heavy load of letters and bundles in the mail bag.

Fred Hamilton, the boatswain, was in charge of the launch that lay alongside the landing. Mr. Wentworth ordered the boys into her stern, and then got in himself to give Mr. Jackson a hand. He then went forward to the wheel and the boatswain stood by the engine.

When they returned to the ship, it was recreation hour, and the music of the “ship’s band” greeted the newcomers across the water. Half a dozen hands were stretched over the side to catch the painter of the launch as she approached the side ladder. The Chairman and the Captain were standing on deck ready to welcome Mr. Jackson.

Bob immediately took the mail below and sorted it out according to regulations, while Mr. Wentworth went to the clothes locker to find a suit of “whites”, and a blue working suit to fit the new apprentice seaman, William Brown.

Billy’s “Station Billet” was made out within half an hour from the time he arrived, and Bob was detailed to explain it to him.

Billy made out that he was Number 6 in the Second Division, Second Section, which was in charge of Harold French, as “B. M.”, and Bob offered to take him to French so that he could report at once.

French looked him over quietly and then said, “You know how to swim, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said Billy, “I’ve done my fifty yards.”

“How about diving?” asked French.

Billy put his hand on his stomach with a smile and said with a peculiar drawl, “I’ve had a good many slaps right here. I’m not much good at that.”

“Probably you don’t swim under water, then,” replied the “B. M.”

“No,” said Billy, “and we never went beyond our depth where I learned swimming.”

“Well,” said French, “we’ll have to go with you under water the first chance we get, and I guess we can teach you a thing or two.”

Billy answered these questions with a deliberate air and without any evidence of being ill at ease. He evidently was in the habit of thinking before he spoke, and carefully listening to what was said; and, although his carriage was poor and his physique not particularly strong, French liked the clear, steady look in his eyes.

As Billy was turning away, the “B. M.” called after him, “Say, young fellow, have you put your things into your locker and got them in order yet?”

“Yes,” replied Brown.

“Well,” said the “B. M.”, looking at his watch, “we’ve got twenty-five minutes before prayers, and I guess we can go forward and have ten minutes’ drill.”

Then he turned for a minute to Dick Gray who had just returned on board, and said in an undertone: “You just keep an eye on him, Dick, and show him the ropes.”

At that moment there happened to be nobody on the forward deck, so that French and Billy and Dick had it all to themselves. French gave his commands in a comparatively subdued voice, so as not to attract a crowd, and then suggested to Brown a few simple ideas about the attitude of respectful attention and the significance of it in the daily life of a scout, while Dick took the position to illustrate what French meant.

Billy was rather awkward, and his large round eyeglasses and prominent ears gave him a queer look of somehow being out of place in his new surroundings; but French noticed that he seemed to enjoy the drill and to take a genuine interest in what he was being taught.

“Heels together, little finger on the seam of your trousers, chest up, stomach in,—don’t bend backwards, balance on the instep—neck straight, chin in. There, sonny, that’s the way you want to hold yourself at quarters, or any time ‘at attention.’ But you can’t expect to do it easily without teaching your body to be strong in the right places. You seem kind of soft now, and here’s a little medicine that will help harden you a bit.”

Then he and Dick showed him an exercise in deep breathing and stretching. “Do that six times, two or three times a day, and I guess it will give you a lift,” said French.

Billy thought of thanking French, but somehow or other felt that his gratitude would not be appreciated,—or else that he had better show it by making progress rather than by words,—so he drew himself up straight and waited to see what was going to happen next. Just then the boatswain’s call sounded out sharp for prayers, and they all went down the companionway to the berth deck.

Billy’s locker and bunk were not far from Dick’s, and after “tattoo” they undressed together and talked about a number of things that had aroused Billy’s curiosity. They were interrupted by the sounding of “taps”; and a minute after Bertie Young, the master-at-arms, made his rounds to see that all were in their bunks and that everything was quiet.

“He knows mighty little about a vessel,” thought Dick, as he turned over in his bunk, “but he’s a great one for asking questions, and I shouldn’t wonder if he knew the whole thing before long.”

In the next bunk but one, Billy lay thinking about the farm and the home folks. “I wonder,” thought he, “whether Roger has remembered the special feed for the calf.” Then, in another minute, he was thinking of the ship again, and of his present surroundings, and wondered how he could have come into so entirely different a world within only fifty miles of the world he had left behind him. “There are lots of things on board this ship,” thought he, “that I never heard of in my life; but I’ll do my best to learn every one of them, and won’t the boys at home be surprised!”

CHAPTER XIV The Key of the Keelson

The next morning, much to every one’s disappointment, the ship’s departure was delayed by a dead calm, and so the “routine at anchor” continued uninterrupted. Meantime Mr. Jackson was making the most of his opportunities for observing the life on board. After following the instruction of the four sections from one o’clock to half-past two, he promised himself to have a good talk with the Chairman and the Captain when the boys should have gone ashore for their liberty and everything on board would be comparatively quiet.

Billy had his first experience of going over the masthead that morning; and, as he was rather a sedentary boy, the thought of it made him feel a little queer. He did not like climbing or high places particularly, but he simply used his common sense, and told himself that the thing had to be done and that there was no use thinking any more about it. Dick managed to get up just behind him so that he could watch him and give him a word of encouragement, if necessary, and things went on all right until they got nearly to the crosstrees. Then Dick noticed that Billy hesitated, and he reached his own arm well up beside him and whispered to him just where to put his hands and feet. The sound of Dick’s voice was all that little Bill needed, and he rallied immediately and climbed to the top, and then stepped across and began going down the other side.

In the afternoon Mr. Jackson watched the string of white hats and jumpers disappear down the cabin companionway, as the boys went to get some of their money before going ashore; and then the inspection of the same string drawn up in line on deck before they got into the boats at three o’clock. He watched them row away from the ship with the “long boat” a little in advance,—their white hats and jumpers like so many dots, and their oar blades sparkling in the afternoon sun.

As he turned his head away from this cheerful scene, he noticed the Chairman standing by his side and looking in the same direction.

“They’re not a bad lot of youngsters,” said the latter, “and there’s just mischief enough in them to keep us busy.”

“Have they all gone ashore?” asked Mr. Jackson.

“All but a few,” replied the Chairman, and he blew his whistle.

“Dick,” said he, turning to the messenger, who had just run up in answer to the signal, “find out how many boys are left on board.”

In a few minutes Dick returned and gave the result of his search.

“There are five, sir: the Chief ‘B. M.’, reading a book in the jib netting, sir; two forward, scrubbing sails for extra duty; Tom Sheffield and the new boy,—Brown, sir, I think is his name.”

“That makes six, counting you,” said the Chairman.

“Yes, sir, I’m on duty as messenger until the liberty party returns.”

“That’s well! Now go and ask Brown to come up and speak to me.”

Billy clambered up the berth deck ladder, and, as he stood at salute before the Chairman and Mr. Jackson, the latter thought he already saw a change for the better in his bearing.

“Sit down, Brown. This is a slack time, and I thought perhaps you’d like to have a little visit with your uncle.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Billy, and he still spoke with the old-fashioned deliberation that Mr. Wentworth had noticed the evening before at the landing.

As he sat down, Mr. Jackson asked: “Well, how do you like it, Bill, as far as you have got?”

“I like it first rate, uncle; seems to me I’m seeing something new every minute, and I like it, too! I find I get twisted with so many new names of things, but I guess that will get all straightened out in a few days.”

“What do you find hardest, Bill?”

“Well, I guess it’s hardest for me to remember to stand up straight; but that ‘B. M.’ of mine—what’s his name—he’s a pretty good sort of a fellow, and gives me a dig in the ribs now and then; and then there’s Dick—I don’t know his last name—he’s a good ’un! Oh! That reminds me,” exclaimed Billy suddenly, “I had almost forgotten something!”

Then turning to the Chairman:

“Will you please tell me, sir, where I can find the key of the keelson?”

A faint smile played over the Chairman’s face as he asked the boy why he wanted it.

“Well, the quartermaster, I think they call him, told me to get it, because the ‘B. M.’ asked him for it, and he said he had not seen it for some time; so I went and asked the messenger, and he didn’t know where it was, and sent me to the boatswain; and the boatswain, he didn’t know where it was, and sent me to the mate, and the mate sent me to the Officer of the Day, and he said I’d better ask the Chairman of the Committee. It’s a mighty funny thing how a thing like that can get lost on board ship, for I haven’t noticed many things lying around loose.”

The Chairman was silent for a few seconds, and then, “It is a funny thing, Brown,” said he, “but I’ll tell you what you do. The Captain is down in the cabin at this moment. You go and report to him from me, tell him your story, and say that I am sure that he can help you out.”

“Shall I go now, sir?” asked Billy.

“Yes,” said the Chairman, “unless Mr. Jackson has something else to say to you.”

But Mr. Jackson had nothing more to say just then except this:

“When you have found out where the key of the keelson is, Bill, I wish you would ask permission to show it to me, and then—bring the keelson along, too, so that we can examine it carefully and see whether the key really fits.”

There was the slightest possible twinkle in Mr. Jackson’s eyes as he made this remark, and Bill looked at him earnestly, as if to fathom its meaning. He then turned to the cabin companionway and disappeared below.

Just then Mr. Jackson’s eye was arrested by a boy up on the mainmast crosstrees, and he recognized Jack Perkins.

“Why, there’s your chief ‘B. M.’,” said he to the Chairman, “taking a view of the ocean.”

“Yes,” was the reply, “that’s Jack, and he’s having his regular constitutional. It is pretty good exercise for a boy who is as strong as he is, but I should hate to do it myself.”

The Chairman then explained that Jack was in the habit of beginning at the jib stay and climbing up to the foremast crosstrees hand over hand, with only the slight support he could get from his knees and feet. He then would proceed in the same manner over to the mainmast crosstrees, a distance of twenty-seven feet, and finally come down by the main topping lift to the quarter-deck.

“That means a pretty good head,” said Mr. Jackson, “besides good muscle.”

Just then Billy reappeared, and with a broad grin on his face, addressed the Chairman.

“I’m mighty sorry to have troubled you, sir, about that key. I guess the works inside my thinker have run down, sir.” Then, turning to Mr. Jackson, “Perhaps I’d better wait until after the cruise, uncle, and I’ll bring you the keelson in my gripsack!”

“He seems to be the right stuff!” remarked the Chairman as Billy walked off.

Having found out from the Captain the exact position and use of the keelson—to bind the ship’s timbers to the keel—Bill lost no time in spreading the information among the ship’s company after their return on board. He was as much interested in sharing a new piece of information as he was in acquiring it originally; and before supper was over, the story of his investigation and its result had spread from quarter-deck to forecastle.

That evening, after the riding lights were up, two choice spirits were cleaning the sidelights, and, hoping to squeeze a little more fun out of Bill, casually remarked:

“Look—Brown—hurry up, will you, and get me the green oil for the starboard light!”

Billy, in his great desire to help, started toward the companionway, then hesitated, and finally turned back, remarking dryly:

“I guess, Johnnie, if you want to go find it yourself, you’ll find the green oil just alongside the red oil, and you’ll find them both—I should say—in the same locker with the ‘key of the keelson’.”

Soon after this, the Triangle Club met in the jib netting.

“What do you think of the new fellow—Brown?” asked Dick.

“If he goes on asking questions at this rate,” replied Chippie, “his cocoanut’ll bust before long.”

“Not much,” retorted Tom; “he’ll make a good master-at-arms one of these days. He’s good stuff!”

CHAPTER XV Seasickness

The following morning at quarters, as an easterly breeze had sprung up during the night, it was announced that the ship would sail immediately after “mast”, which would be at a quarter of ten. This meant another opportunity for the “B. M.’s” to see how well they could handle their sections in getting under way; and, as soon as “mast” was over, Jack called Ellsworth and the two other boatswain’s mates together to remind them of the details of their jobs. Then he went over and talked with Bertie Young, the master-at-arms.

“Look, Bertie,” said he, “don’t let any lubbers loiter down below after the call for getting under way has been sounded.”

“Sure, Jack,” said Bertie, “I’ll be on the job.”

Meantime the sky had become overcast, and the wind had freshened, and it still blew from the northeast as it had done the day before. While going over the masthead, the boys noticed quite heavy clouds near the horizon. There was also more moisture in the air, and everything looked as if a northeaster were making up its mind to visit the coast. The wind, however, was not strong enough to warrant taking in any reefs, and the Bright Wing sailed briskly away from her anchorage with a motion that gradually increased as they cleared the harbor. The lee scuppers were all under water by this time and no mistake, and the vessel flew like a gull when the wind catches its outspread wings and carries it along without resistance. The tide was running out, also, and they slipped off so quickly that an hour later, when the boys were looking back at the shore, the familiar spires and headlands had almost disappeared in the distance.

The manœuvre of getting under way had been carried out as smoothly as the last time, and now the master-at-arms was busy warning the smaller and greener boys off the lee rail.

“The weather’s too cold for a bath this morning, you lubbers; and, besides, the Captain doesn’t want to stop her headway to pick you up,” cried Bertie. “Gee, what a spanking breeze!”

Now and then a boy might be noticed lingering at the foot of the foremast stays to leeward, looking intently at the water, and then coming back with a wistful look upon his face. As time went on, these little visits seemed to become more frequent; and then Mr. Miller and Mr. Wentworth were observed by the Chairman tucking boys away in different corners of the deck wrapped up in their blankets; and these blanketed bundles of boys deposited in the more sheltered nooks began to increase until there were half a dozen or more scattered about in different places.

Just then Jones passed along and said to one of the boys with a jeer: “Seasick, eh! I thought so!”

“No, sir!” answered Chip, “I was sick, but I’m feeling better. Next time she goes about, I think I’ll take a hand with the rest of them.”

“Ready about! Hard-a-lee!” rang out across the deck.

Chippie jumped to his feet in an instant.

“Gee,” muttered he, “but that was a short tack,” and ran to report to his “B. M.”

“That’s good, Chippie,” said Ellsworth, “you take hold right here,” and in another minute the Bright Wing gave a spring and was off again on the port tack.

Harold French and Randall Turner were the two “B. M.’s” of the second division, and they both began cheering up their invalids and pointing to Chippie, who was right as a trivet, though his face still looked a little paler than usual.

At mess inspection there were only three boys missing; but some of those who had begun to feel well as long as they were on deck, asked suddenly to be excused before the end of dinner, and scrambled up the ladder into the fresh air as fast as they could. In the meantime Bertie Young, the master-at-arms, had given cups of broth to the patients who had remained on deck, and was urging them to chew some pieces of hard tack.

“Put something into your stomachs, boys, and that will make them feel more homelike.”

They were all feeling better by this time, and Dick Gray called out, lifting his head from underneath his blanket:

“Say, fellows, here’s a conundrum for you: Which would you rather do,—feel all O.K. ashore, or sick as a boiled owl at sea?”

“Gee,” growled out a voice from another gray blanket, “I know what answer I’d a’ given to that two hours ago, but it’s different now! So, here goes, fellows,” and he jumped to his feet. “I call for three times three cheers for the Bright Wing and ‘being sick at sea!’”

The other two also sprang to their feet; and, as the Captain and Mr. Miller were coming up on deck, they heard, to their surprise, the sounds of the cheering, “Rah, Rah, Rah—Rah, Rah, Rah—Rah, Rah, Rah—Sea Scouts—Sea Scouts—Sea Scouts—Bright Wing, Bright Wing, Bright Wing—S-i-c-k a-t S-e-a!”

A roar of laughter followed from the former patients of the hospital ward, and it was so contagious that it reached way forward to the galley where the mess cooks were washing up after dinner.

“See here, we’re not all through yet,” cried Dick, as a new blanketed figure lay down. Chippie noticed the pale face of Jones.

“Can I get you anything, Jones?” asked Chippie innocently.

“No,” answered Jones, with a groan and sour face.

“He doesn’t feel as perky as he did,” thought Chippie to himself, with a grin.

There was always a “band concert” of half an hour after dinner when the ship was at sea; and, under the influence of the music from the Victrola, the last remnants of squeamishness disappeared, except in the case of poor old Jones.

“Pride comes before a fall,” said Dick to Chippie; “I guess he’d have done better to own up before.”

Some of the huskies even tried dancing up and down on the windward side of the deck. The wind also seemed to be backing round to the westward, and the motion of the waves was not quite so lively.

Mr. Wentworth was Officer of the Day; and, after the band concert and dance were over, the Chairman and Mr. Miller went below. Mr. Wilson, the mate, was at the wheel giving some of the older boys a spell from time to time, and the Captain had already gone below to write some letters.

After Turner, French, and Perkins each had been at the wheel for about twenty minutes, the lookout shouted, “Light-ho!”

The mate immediately responded in a loud singing voice, “Wh-e-r-e—away?”

“Three points off the port bow!” came the answer from the lookout.

“Can you make her out?” called the mate.

And the lookout sang back, “I think it’s Whale’s Back Light, sir.”

Just then the cry, “Messenger!” was heard coming up through the cabin companionway, and Sidney Malloy, who was the messenger on duty, came running aft to answer the summons.

“Messenger, sir,” said he, as he saluted, standing beside the Chairman’s bunk.

“Oh! Sidney, is that you?” said the Chairman, “are there any more sick boys on deck?”

“No, sir,” answered Sidney, “only one; but a few of ’em look a little green-like, sir.”

“Who are they?”

“Well, sir, there’s Dickie Gray and Chip Smith—they don’t seem to be quite first-rate yet, sir.”

“Send Gray down to me,” said the Chairman, who then got out of his bunk and took his coat down from the bulkhead.

There was a sound of running feet on the deck, for the messenger always did his errands on the run, and, in another minute, Dick was in the cabin.

“You sent for me, sir?”

“Yes,” said the Chairman, “sit down there on the locker a minute. How far are we from ‘Whale’s Back’?”

“The lookout has just reported ‘Whale’s Back’ in sight, sir.”

“Really,” said the Chairman, “that is very interesting; because now you can tell me how far we are from Portsmouth Harbor.”

“How is that, sir?” asked Dick.

“Well, if you don’t know, I can tell you in a few minutes; and then you can pass it on to some of the other boys. Go and ask the yeoman to give you a plumb line and half-circle, and then bring it here to me.”

Dick ran off very much interested and found the yeoman writing a letter on the berth deck.

“Say, Bob,” said Dick, “what’s a half-circle and plumb line? Have you got one?”

“Sure,” answered Bob, “what do you want it for?”

“The old man has just sent me down to get it. Hurry up there, quick.”

Bob Brackett, as yeoman of the ship, besides being always responsible for carrying the mail, had charge of the stationery, postage stamps, games, and instruction material; and now he dove down into one corner of his yeoman’s locker and pulled out a board shaped like a half-circle with a straight edge or diameter of eight inches.

“There’s the board,” said he, and tossed it on the table; “the plumb line seems to have gone adrift.”

Then, after rummaging a little longer, he called out:

“Here it is,” and handed Dick a leaden sinker fastened to a string.

“Now wait a minute,” said Bob, “and I’ll tack the string on for you. You see it’s got to be fastened just in the right place,—at the center of the straight edge.”

He fastened the string down with a thumb tack, and then Bob took it and ran aft again to the cabin.

“Have you had anything about angles and circles at school, Gray?” asked the Chairman.

“Yes, sir, but I don’t remember much about ’em.”

“Well, I guess you’ll remember enough to understand what I am going to tell you.”

Then he pointed out the degree marks that ran along the curved edge of the half circular board.

“Now if you hold the board up with the straight edge on top and horizontal, you’ll notice that the plumb line falls at right angles to the horizontal line and, at the edge of the circumference, passes through a point marked zero—but you must have seen a thing like this before, haven’t you? It’s what they call a ‘protractor.’”

“I’ve seen something like it, I think, sir, but I never understood what it was for.”

“Well,” said the Chairman, “you’ll see now how easy it is to understand, when you put your mind to it! This point marked zero that the plumb line passes through when the straight edge is horizontal, is exactly in the middle of the curved edge of the semicircumference. Now, from zero along the curve to the end of the straight edge, on both sides of zero, are ninety little points marking ninety degrees, making two halves of a semicircle, or in other words, one-half of a whole circle of 360 degrees.

“If you hold the straight edge of the board up to your eye and move the further end upward from the horizon, while keeping the center steady, the plumb line moves away from zero toward your body, and at the same time along the face of the semicircle, and registers a certain number of degrees from zero. If you imagine yourself standing in the middle of a circle, you can also imagine a lighthouse or a church steeple at the circumference of the circle. This distance to the circumference will be the radius. Then imagine that radius held fast at your end, but swinging upward and pointing to the sky. It will measure ninety degrees when it is pointing straight up from where you are standing to a point in the heavens directly above your head, and forty-five degrees when pointing to a place in the sky half-way between the horizon and a point directly above, and less than forty-five degrees when pointing to a place in the sky nearer the horizon. The straight edge of this board represents the direction of the sight line, or radius; and, as you tip the end up above the horizon until it reaches the top of the tower or steeple you are measuring, the same number of degrees will be registered by the plumb line at the bottom of the board, counting from zero, as the line appears to move toward yourself. Now, if you are holding your board with your right hand, just put the finger of your left hand on the plumb line to keep it in place while you look to see what it registers,—this way,” and the Chairman went through the motion with his hands.

“Thank you, sir,” said Dick, “I understand that very well, but I don’t see how it gives the distance to the lighthouse.”

“No,” replied the Chairman, “of course not, and that is just where the most interesting part of the operation comes in. I have shown you how to measure the height of your lighthouse in degrees along the edge of a circumference; and now we must find out how to measure the distance of the lighthouse, or the radius of the circle, from the center where we are standing, to the point in the circumference where the lighthouse stands.”

Dick looked up with interest and said, “I don’t see, sir, how that can be done, because we want the distance in miles or yards, and there is nothing to show us the number of miles or yards in a degree.”

“That’s true,” said the Chairman, “but happily for us, some old fellow a long time ago had a bright idea. He knew that, in every circle, the length of the radius is always in the same proportion to the length of the circumference, and so he laid out a line equal in length to the radius along the circumference, and found that it was equal to a little more than 57 degrees. Supposing, then, that you found your lighthouse to be four degrees above the horizon, you could then calculate what fraction of the length of the radius the height of your tower is by finding the number of times that four is contained in 57. Let me see,—that would be about 14 1/4, wouldn’t it?”

“I guess so, sir,” said Dick.

“Now,” continued the Chairman, “if your lighthouse is 300 feet high, this 300 feet will be the same part of the distance as 4 degrees is of 57 degrees. But 4 goes into 57, 14 1/4 times; therefore, the length of the distance will be 300 feet × 14 1/4, which is 4,275 feet, or about four-fifths of a mile.”

“Oh, I see,” cried Dick, “but how do we find out the height of the lighthouse?”

“That’s a good question,” said the Chairman; “we can’t find the distance unless the height is given, and for that reason the heights of lighthouses and other conspicuous objects are usually given on the charts. But, if we knew our distance from the lighthouse, we could easily find its height by similar reasoning.”

Just then the Captain, who had been writing at the cabin table, looked up and said: “I’ll show you the chart, Gray—I don’t just remember the height of ‘Whale’s Back’,” and he reached out for the chart of Portsmouth Harbor, which was rolled up in its place on the cabin bulkhead. When he had unrolled it he showed Dick the figures.

“Thank you, sir,” said Dick. “Mr. Chairman, is there any time when you’d like me to report about this?”

“Come and speak to me, right after ‘colors’,” replied the Chairman.

Dick saluted and climbed up on deck as quickly as he could. He felt a kind of new opening in his brain, and was keen on making his observation and calculation as soon as possible. Every trace of seasickness had vanished.

CHAPTER XVI The Commandant’s Inspection

The next morning Billy Brown went through “washing clothes” and “scrubbing decks”, “colors”, “bright work”, “quarters”, and “mast” with his eyes and ears wide open; and, all the time, he was looking out for an opportunity to practice the exercise which his “B. M.” had given him as medicine for his “softness.” During morning instruction he had “knots and splices” for one period, “boxing the compass” for another, and “ship’s tackle” with the mate for the third. He came out very well with the first two, but was of course quite ignorant when it came to ship’s tackle. As was always the case, however, the more ignorant he was, the more anxious he seemed to learn, and quite a shower of questions fell about the ears of the mate before the instruction period was over.

While drill was going on among the boys, the Captain and the Chairman were making a regular inspection below to prepare for the visit of the Commandant of the Portsmouth Navy Yard, who was expected on board at 11:30 to inspect the ship and crew.

Several boys’ lockers were found in disorder and reported to their respective “B. M.’s.” But the Chairman was delighted with the excellent condition of the galley and the forecastle.

“Ketchy”, the cook’s assistant, also served as cabin boy on board, and he was particularly careful that morning to see that the officers’ quarters were as well up to the mark, at least, as any other part of the vessel.

At half-past ten Mr. Miller left in the launch to call for the Commandant at the Navy Yard; and Dick Gray, who was one of the regular watch, was detailed to keep a sharp lookout for the return of the launch and report it at once to Mr. Wentworth, who was Officer of the Day.

All the boys were in their “whites” in honor of the impending visit; and they were just about finishing the third instruction period when Dick noticed the launch, flying the “Jack” in her bow, turn the corner of the fort at the entrance of Little Harbor. He immediately reported to Mr. Wentworth, and the “B. M.” on watch blew his call and sounded “Retreat from drill.”

“Side boys—stand by!” was the next command, and two “B. M.’s” with their respective quartermasters took their positions at the starboard side-ladder. Meantime the rest of the crew was ordered to its regular stations as at “quarters”, and only the watch were left to lend a hand as the launch drew up to the side.

The Commandant was rather a stout officer with a pleasant look. A good-humored smile lit up his face as he stepped on deck between the side boys standing at salute and noticed the trill of the boatswain’s call. His hand was first raised to acknowledge the salute, and he then shook hands with the Captain and the Chairman who were waiting to receive him.

They introduced Mr. Jackson as their guest, and all three walked aft to the quarter-deck and sat down under the awning.

The boys were then ordered to “stand at ease” until after the inspection of the ship, and their visitor inspected her carefully from stem to stern, looking into every corner, and asking to have the lid removed from everything that was covered up.

While they were in the galley he examined carefully the back of the range to see whether there was any danger from fire; and then, pointing to a ring in the deck beneath their feet, “What’s that?” asked he.

“A coal bunker,” answered the Captain; and, lifting the corner, which was a little stiff, he showed the place between the deck and the timbers below where the range coal was kept.

The Commandant then asked questions about the storage of gasoline for the launch and where the kerosene for the lamps was kept. It was explained to him that the only supply of gasoline was kept in the bow of the launch itself, and that the kerosene was lashed inside of a crate out on deck. He examined the boatswain’s lockers with a good deal of interest and expressed himself as satisfied with the result.

When they came back to the deck, the boys were drawn up at “Attention” and he walked up and down the lines deliberately and carefully, taking in all there was to be seen.

Then, turning to one of the officers, he said: “How long does it take you to get one of the boats into the water fully manned?”

“Would you like to see them try it, sir?” asked the Chairman.

As the Commandant assented, the Captain spoke to Jack Perkins.

As usual, when lying at anchor, all the boats were in the water, swinging from the boat booms, whereas the Commandant’s question evidently referred to lowering a boat from its davits into the water; so that the long boat—which was the cutter belonging to Jack Perkins’s section—first had to be hauled up on the davits and made secure in the position it occupied when the ship was at sea. Then Mr. Wentworth took out his watch while Jack Perkins gave the command:

“First division, first section, attention! Stand by to lower the long boat!”

The boys jumped to their places at the davits, while Chippie Smith, the coxswain, climbed into the boat at once and began shipping the rudder. Tom had hold of the painter as the boat dipped into the water with Chippie in the stern. Five of the section then climbed over the side, and finally Tom—the last one—took his seat in the bow with the painter in his hand. He quickly seized the boat hook; and, in answer to Chippie’s “shove off”, the boat swung away from the ship and the oars dropped into their rowlocks.

“That was pretty good,” said the Commandant; “how long did it take, Mr. Scout Master?”

“Just one minute and twelve seconds,” replied Mr. Wentworth.

“Well,” continued the Commandant, “lowering a boat properly is no joke,—your boys have the right idea, Captain; but I should say they needed a little practice. It’s a nice little bit of team work, and I suppose you have a competition between your three boats’ crews occasionally. Now, Mr. Chairman,” he went on, “may I have the pleasure of saying a word to the boys before I leave?”

The crew was then ordered into its accustomed position at “mast”, facing aft, while the Commandant stood on the quarter-deck with the other officers beside him.

“I am glad to have seen you and your ship, boys, and to have had the pleasure of talking to your officers.

“I have examined the ship as thoroughly as I could, in the short time at my disposal, and I find her A-1 for cleanliness and order. There is nothing so clean as a clean sailor in a clean vessel, and there is nothing so filthy as a dirty one.

“I don’t know whether all of you boys appreciate your surroundings on board this vessel, both as regards the ship and your officers; but, if you knew as much as I do about the life of seamen, I am sure you would be grateful for the opportunities you are enjoying, and I have no doubt you are.

“But don’t make the mistake of accepting all this without feeling the necessity for making a just return; and this you can do best by attending to your work as thoroughly as possible, and preparing yourselves to serve your country.

“I don’t mean only in a military way, for that is but one of many kinds of service needed; but, if you follow the lines given in your scout law, you cannot fail to be useful wherever you are.”

After a few more words with the Chairman, the Commandant, accompanied by Mr. Miller, entered the launch and waved a good-by to the Bright Wing and its crew.

All stood at attention until the launch had shoved off. They were then dismissed and went below for dinner.

CHAPTER XVII Storm-bound at Provincetown

The entrance to Little Harbor at Portsmouth, between Great Island and the breakwater, was so narrow that it would have been impossible to get out to sea against the tide unless a westerly wind had been blowing. As it was, the wind was light and easterly, so that the Bright Wing was obliged to adapt herself to the tide, which began to run out as early as three in the morning. At four o’clock, therefore, all hands were called to the windlass, and, as soon as she was free, the ship slipped out past the breakwater and the fort, toward the rising sun, with her sails slightly shaking in the breeze.

The course was about south by east as far as Thatcher’s Island; and, from there, about south-half-east for Race Point on the tip end of the Cape,—the whole distance being roughly seventy miles. So long as the wind held easterly, or at least did not veer around in a southerly direction, it would be possible for them to sail the first thirty miles or so on one long leg, fairly close hauled; but, from Thatcher’s Island on, they would be able to slack off their sheets.

The plan of the cruise included a short stay at Provincetown, to give Mr. Jackson a chance to get ashore, and from there around the Cape to Martha’s Vineyard; then through the Cape Cod Canal to home waters at Hull.

As the Bright Wing slipped along through the water at a moderate speed, everything on board was going like clockwork. There was no seasickness to interfere with the routine instruction, and the light easterly breeze made it cool and pleasant, although it was very hot ashore. At quarters it was announced that Randall Turner, “B. M.” of the second division, first section, had left the ship at Portsmouth the night before, in response to a telegram announcing his mother’s serious illness, and that Ronald Jones, the coxswain of the same section, had been appointed “B. M.” in Turner’s place. At dinner time they were just about opposite the twin lights on Thatcher’s Island; and, when the new watch came on deck after dinner, they noticed that the wind had shifted to the north of east, and that the sky was beginning to be overcast. The breeze, also, was freshening, and, as the sheets were let out to catch more of the wind, the Bright Wing began running rather faster, with the breeze on her port quarter. The mate and Mr. Wentworth were walking up and down, sniffing the air.

“Guess we’ll make Provincetown in short order, if this wind holds,” said the mate; then, looking up at the clouds, he added, “I shouldn’t wonder if it thickened a little before to-morrow morning, and I notice the glass has gone down since we left Portsmouth.”

This was the first time some of the younger boys had sailed in a strong fair wind. The motion, of course, seemed far less than if they had been obliged to beat up against it, and there was little or no discomfort, in spite of the fact that the wind was gradually increasing and the weather thickening.

At about four o’clock in the afternoon, it began to rain, and all hands on deck got into their oilskins and rubber boots. Fortunately, however, there was no fog, and Cape Race light soon loomed up clearly across the port bow. Once passed, it became necessary to beat to the northward against the wind, so that they did not drop anchor in Provincetown Harbor until after dark.

In the meantime the weather had developed into a storm, and the Bright Wing, along with a number of fishing schooners that were moored in the harbor, dropped extra anchors as a matter of precaution.

It was not possible to send the launch ashore that night for the mail, and it seemed a strange thing to the younger boys to feel the motion of the ship, and to hear the sound of the wind blowing through the rigging, while at the same time they knew that they were at anchor.

Dick Gray had been getting more and more into his work since the crisis he had passed through some days before. He felt as if he had thrown off a great load that used to weigh him down while he was working, and had taken more than half the fun out of his play. He had a new sense of freedom which he had never felt before; and, at the same time, a tremendous desire to make good in whatever he was called upon to do. Dick “Number 1” was not only in command, but using all his force and intelligence to make a good and obedient servant of Dick “Number 2.” He began to feel a new sense of enjoyment in his life which he, himself, did not quite understand; but the truth was very simple: he was becoming a man, and learning to appreciate a man’s responsibilities.

Ronald Jones, the new “B. M.” who had succeeded Turner, was a boy who had got ahead in his tests for ratings and merit badges rather by book learning than from actual experience. Of course all the senior officers as well as the “B. M.’s” were interested to see whether he had in him the right stuff for a petty officer; and Mr. Wentworth, as Officer of the Day, watched with even greater care than usual to see whether Jones gave his commands on time, and also whether they were properly carried out. The boy, of course, did not realize how carefully he was being observed, and seemed rather pleased with himself than otherwise, until Mr. Wentworth asked him why the order for the first instruction period of the afternoon was three minutes late. Jones mumbled out an excuse of some sort; but, as a matter of fact, it had really never occurred to him that three minutes would make any difference one way or the other.

“You remember, Jones, I explained to you when I gave you your watch billet that every routine order must be given and carried out on the dot by the deck clock. If you have not remembered to give the order within sixty seconds of the right time, you are clearly at fault, and no excuse will be accepted. Until you have had some practice, you will not find this an easy thing to do, and it may be that you will never be able to accomplish it. All men cannot be officers, for they haven’t got it in them, and yet they may be very good privates. It is the same with boys, and now you have your chance of proving whether you can make good or whether you can’t.”

Jones might have understood from Mr. Wentworth’s serious tone that there was need for mending his ways; but he seemed to take his new authority more as a feather in his cap than as a serious responsibility. This was not the first time he had been “called down” since noon, when he and his section had been put in charge of the watch. His “life buoy” (whose duty it is to stand on the leeward side, prepared to throw the buoy at any moment) was lolling most of the time on the cabin house instead of being alert on his two feet. There were four or five more routine orders on Jones’s watch bill to be given before he was relieved at four o’clock; and, of those, only two were punctually and properly carried out.

At the officers’ conference that evening, Mr. Wentworth reported, among other things, on Jones’s first watch that afternoon, and it was decided to give him another forty-eight hours to see whether he could make good as a petty officer.

The next morning Mr. Jackson, who was anxious to take the train to Boston, found to his surprise that it was impossible to get ashore, for the storm had risen to unusual violence. The Captain and the mate kept a close watch on the anchor cables, for they feared the anchors might drag at any moment. On account of the rain, quarters, setting up exercises, and instruction were all held on the berth deck; but toward noon there came a break in the clouds, and, with the first gleams of sunshine, the wind began to abate.

It was not until after dinner, however, that the launch was sent ashore with Mr. Jackson, the yeoman, and Billy Brown, who accompanied his uncle to the train; and, as soon as they had landed, the yeoman started for the post office, while Mr. Jackson and Billy walked to the railway station.

“Say, uncle,” said Billy, “seems a long time since you and I came aboard at Portsmouth, doesn’t it? You can tell the folks I’m having the time of my life; but just find out, will you, whether Roger has remembered the calf.”

Mr. Jackson promised. Bill watched the train roll out of the station, and then found his way back to the wharf where Bob Brackett was waiting for him, and they both returned to the ship just in time for the afternoon swim.

The weather had cleared by three o’clock, the sun was shining brightly, and all together the conditions were just right for a good dip, although there was more motion in the water than usual, even inside the harbor. Jack Perkins was in charge of the swimming party, and was particularly interested in teaching Billy Brown, who seemed to have great difficulty in getting over a natural aversion for the water. Brown knew the stroke well enough, but would tighten up from lack of confidence, and Jack was trying hard to teach him to swim in a quiet and leisurely way instead of working in spasms.

They were all swimming off the ship’s side to leeward, as the Captain and mate were preparing to row ashore, and Jack suddenly remembered a letter which he had forgotten to give to the yeoman to mail.

“Captain,” he called from the water, “are you going near the post office?” and, as the Captain nodded, he said, “I forgot to give the yeoman a letter I wrote home,—would you mind mailing it for me, sir?”

At the Captain’s cordial assent, Jack scrambled up the side-ladder and disappeared down the berth deck companionway.

Meantime, Brown had been swimming pretty well—for him—and struck out from the ship’s side, followed by Chippie Smith, who knew Billy’s peculiarities as a swimmer and was keeping a friendly eye on him. But the tide happened to be bearing away from the vessel, and suddenly Chippie noticed that Billy was sputtering and struggling ahead of him in a kind of panic.

“It’s all right, Bill—take your time and swim back here to me,” called out Smith in a reassuring tone.

Little Billy felt the force of the current against him, and finally scrambled through about six feet of water to where Smith was; but, having completely lost his presence of mind, frantically grabbed him round the neck from behind and began weighing him down into the water. One of the boys near the ship noticed what was going on and gave a loud call for help which reached Dick’s ears while he was writing a letter home on the day bunk. He had no sooner heard the cry than he bounded to the ship’s side and took in the situation at a glance. Without thinking of the side-ladder, he dove off the rail, clothes and all, and came up again about four feet from where the two boys were struggling. Approaching close to Chippie, he said quietly:

“Knock the back of your head against his nose, Chip; that will break his hold, and then I’ll pick him up.”

Smith had been careful to keep his mouth closed while his head was under water, and took in a deep breath whenever he could manage to wriggle to the surface. Now Dick’s voice gave him just the support he needed, and he quietly bumped against Billy’s face with the back of his head. He purposely did not do it hard the first time; but the second time he knocked just hard enough, and Bill relaxed his grasp. Dick then turned over on his back; and, catching Billy under the arms, quietly swam back to the side of the ship.

It did not take long to lift Billy to the deck, and it was found that he was really more frightened than anything else. The Chairman, the Captain, and almost the whole ship’s company had formed a ring around him as he lay there on his back. Mr. Miller knelt beside him for a few minutes; and, when he had reported his pulse fairly good and their anxiety had been allayed, one of the boys cried out: “Look at Dick Gray!” and burst out laughing.

All eyes followed those of the laughing boy, and the merriment became general and hearty as Dick—dripping from head to foot—gazed with an earnest look upon the little figure lying on the deck, his fountain pen sticking up at a sharp angle from his mouth, in the same position it had occupied when he first started from his writing on the day bunk and jumped off the rail into the water!

“What’s the matter with me?” he blurted out.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full!” shouted Chippie, and only then did Dick become conscious of his pen.

“How about your letter, Gray?” asked the Chairman, with a twinkle in his eye.

“I guess I’d better change my clothes before I finish it, sir,” said Dick, with a grin.

Meantime Billy Brown had got up on to his feet, and was ordered to report to the Chairman as soon as he had changed his clothes.

CHAPTER XVIII A Clearing Sky and a Fresh Start

At prayers that night, the talk turned naturally enough on Law Number 10,—“A Scout is Brave.”

“There are very few men,” said the Chairman, “and perhaps fewer boys, who do not suffer from fear of some sort at one time or another. If they let the fear get the best of them without making any effort to overcome it, they become cowards, and their weakness goes on increasing and tends to weaken them in everything they undertake to do. A thoroughgoing coward is the most untrustworthy kind of man possible; and, at the same time, the most to be pitied, for he has no refuge from his fear, and must continue to suffer till he has faced and overcome it. It does not matter what we are afraid of, so long as we give in to fear; and, if one terror is removed from the outside, another is likely to take its place at any time. I want you boys to understand this: that nothing in the world is more frightful than to be under the control of selfish fear; and, when we have the habit of controlling our fear, nothing in the world is unendurable, and nothing in the world need be terrifying.

“Some people are born with certain special kinds of fear, like the fear of water or of fire, and such things are no more their fault than the color of their eyes or hair; but it is very decidedly their fault if they do not work and learn to overcome them. It is the greatest mistake to imagine that they cannot be controlled and entirely conquered. I have had a good talk with Brown this evening, and he understands that the panic he was in while swimming was in itself a contemptible thing, but he does not propose to let it control him. Panic, or uncontrolled fear, is very selfish; and, in this case, Brown sees that he might have drowned Smith as well as himself if his hold hadn’t been broken. He understands that his own life would not be worth saving if this weakness should continue to master him, and of course he will make it his particular business to get the best of it.

“Lots of boys have been through hard fights with themselves about such matters, and there is not one of us here to-night who has not some weak spot over which he must keep a careful watch for the sake of his honor,—his obligation to duty and to God.”

“Please, sir,” said a small voice from the back row, “the first time I went over the masthead, I was so scared I thought I never should get down again; but the next time it went better, and the next time after that I didn’t mind it at all.”

The Chairman recognized in the speaker one of the younger scouts; and, before he could make any reply, Brown piped up from the other side of the deck:

“That’s the same as me, sir, only Dick Gray, he helped me over the worst of it. Now I had just as lief go over as eat my dinner.”

“That’s well,” replied the Chairman. “What you’ve got to do from now on is to learn to like the water—and the deep water—as much as you like going over the masthead.”

The weather was somewhat uncertain when they turned into their bunks that night, and, at about half-past one the next morning, Mr. Miller climbed up on deck very quietly, to find out what the prospects were for sailing around the Cape. The wind seemed to have veered to the northwest and blew cool in his face as he looked up to the sky. There appeared to be no clouds in any direction, and the stars were shining brightly wherever the sky could be seen. He did not see the anchor watch at first, although the rough log was in its place near the binnacle light on the cabin house. He walked forward, thinking that the watch might be for the moment in the jib netting; but, as he turned around to come aft again, he noticed the small figure of a boy in a watch cap coming down the fore rigging. He recognized Dick Gray as the latter stepped on to the deck and saluted.

“What were you doing up aloft, Dick?” asked Mr. Miller.

“Looking at the stars, sir. You can’t see them so well from the deck, on account of the spars and rigging.”

“Have you got the log all written up?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Dick, “and she’s heading just about north, the same direction that I was looking.”

“What were you trying to make out?” They spoke with subdued voices so as not to disturb the sleepers.

“Well, sir, I was trying to make out the great wheel turning around the Pole-star; that is, I was trying to see it turn, but the water’s so unsteady that it’s hard work telling whether you can see it turn or not.”

Now Mr. Miller was very much interested in the stars, and was fond of coming up on deck at night to take a look at the heavens now and then, and so the question Dick had raised was one that interested him quite as much as it did Dick.

After he had thought for a few minutes he finally said:

“It is a difficult thing to observe unless you have some fixed and conspicuous object in the landscape to watch the turning stars go past. If we could stay here all night, though, or even for three or four hours, we would easily notice the change in their positions. But our night watches aren’t arranged for the study of astronomy; it’s too bad, isn’t it?”

“I was thinking, sir, if I could make a little rough chart of the principal northern stars as they are now, it might be interesting to compare their positions with the way they look in the early evening.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Mr. Miller cordially, “have you anything to draw a circle with?”

“No, I haven’t up here, sir.”

“Well, here’s a fifty-cent piece, and you go aft and make your chart while I keep my eyes and ears open toward the water for you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Dick, and ran aft with the fifty-cent piece. First he drew the circle and then made two lines crossing each other through the center at right angles. The whole circle represented the course of the stars in twenty-four hours, and each quarter, of course, would represent six hours. He made just a dot for the North Star, close to the center, and then placed the Great Dipper, with its pointers, in the right position at one extremity of the circle, and “Cassiopeia”, in the shape of a “W”, nearly opposite to it, on the other side, in this way:

1.30 A.M. 7.30 P.M.

“Now,” thought he, “if I get a chance to-night before prayers, I’ll make another sketch then. That’ll be about eighteen or nineteen hours from now, and they ought to have turned about three-quarters of the way round the circle by that time.” He then took a look at his watch, and found he had three minutes to wait before ringing four bells at two o’clock; so he returned the silver coin to Mr. Miller and took his station near the bell, watch in hand.

Meantime Mr. Miller went below, and Dick slipped down the berth deck ladder to call his successor, who happened to be Tom Sheffield. They came on deck together and Tom rubbed his eyes sleepily.

“See,” said Dick, as he turned to go down the ladder to his bunk, “if you want to look at something nice, when you’ve got through with the log, just crawl up the fore-rigging to the crosstrees and look around. So long!”

Next morning the wind was blowing moderately from the northwest, the sky was bright and clear, but there was quite a heavy sea rolling from the effects of the storm. Everything was favorable to an early start, and the weather was especially good for getting around the Cape, for no seamen like to pass anywhere near Pollock Rip and the other rocks on the eastern side in thick or foggy weather. After they were out of the harbor, and had passed Long Point Light, they beat up against the wind for a couple of hours till they got about three miles outside of Race Point, where the sheets were slackened and the ship ran free. It was not altogether a comfortable motion for the green hands; for, as they were running with the wind, they did not feel the breeze in their faces, and a fresh breeze in your face is a great thing for seasickness; but the air, such as it was, was cool and clear, and the ship was all alive with the rolling motion of the waves. The wind held in about the same direction pretty much all day; and, having made a particularly early start, by four o’clock in the afternoon they were off the southeast corner of the Cape.

They had set sail at four o’clock that morning, and Clarence Ellsworth was on watch with his section until after breakfast. From eight o’clock till noon, Ronald Jones—the new “B. M.”—came on; but, much to Mr. Miller’s disappointment, he did not seem to be doing any better, so that even his messenger was tardy with the ship’s bell.

The westerly wind seemed to put a keen edge on all the appetites aboard, and at dinner the conversation was quite as lively as the knives and forks.

Jones’s section sat at the end of the table opposite the Chief “B. M.” and, during a comparative lull in the general noise and clatter, Jones’s voice was heard saying, in a domineering tone:

“Didn’t you hear what I told you? I told you to eat up that piece of fish,—the whole of it.”

The general attention was arrested by the sound of this unusual command, and another boy’s voice was heard to answer:

“It’s a second help, Ronald, and I got too much; I can’t help that.”

Jones’s voice grew more angry, and he did not seem to realize that the whole company were listening to his remarks.

“I don’t care whether it’s your second help or your twenty-second. You do what I say, or I’ll put you on report!”

There was no answer to this remark excepting the fact that the order was not obeyed, as the signal was given to leave the table before the remaining quantity of fish could be consumed; and, in accordance with his threat, Jones reported the matter to Jack Perkins—as Chief “B. M.”—immediately after dinner.

“It’s too bad,” said Mr. Wentworth, when Jack brought the matter to him. “I’m afraid that’s another bad mark against Jones. He’s too slack with his orders about work, and he’s over-keen about trifles and his personal authority. It takes more common sense than that to make a good petty officer.”

During the afternoon they passed Chatham on their starboard side, and hauled in the sheets off Monomoy Island to make the passage through Pollock Rip Slue and then past Shovelful and Handkerchief lightships. Just as they were finally heading directly for Vineyard Haven, the lookout cried: “Ship ahoy!”

“Where away?” called the voice of the Captain, who was at the wheel.

“Straight ahead, sir,” was the answer of the lookout.

“Can you make her out?”

“Seems like a rowboat full of people!” was the answer.

The Captain called the mate to the wheel and sent the messenger for his glasses, then he went forward himself and made a careful examination of the little dot on the water to which the lookout had called his attention. The glass revealed the fact that there was a small mast in the boat, although she carried no sail, at which a flag was flying upside down, evidently as a signal of distress. Meantime the Chairman and Mr. Miller had come up and joined the Captain in the bow, and it was decided to keep the vessel right on her course until they reached the boat ahead of them.

“They must have had to abandon their ship somewhere outside,” remarked the Chairman, “and, when the wind changed after the storm, they had to row against it to make for shore.”

“Yes,” answered the Captain, who still had the glasses up to his eyes. “I caught a glimpse of an oar just then, in the sunlight, but they can’t have more than two, and it’s a long pull they have ahead of them in a rough sea, with a load like that.”

“I suppose they are making for Nantucket, but that must be fourteen miles off, and they couldn’t possibly get there before nightfall.”

So they talked back and forth until gradually they began to make out more and more distinctly the details in and about the boat and its crew.

Chippie was standing near by as the conversation between the Chairman and the Captain took place. He immediately ran off to find Tom and Dick and tell them the news, which spread like wildfire all over the ship; and it was as much as the boys on watch could do to attend to their regular duties without stopping frequently to peer at the little boat in the distance ahead of them.

CHAPTER XIX A Rescue

The sea was still rough from the after effects of the storm, and, although the waves had somewhat subsided, yet they were high enough to tumble over one another—forming white-caps and streamers of spray when caught by the wind. All hands on board who had no definite posts of duty had their eyes fixed upon the boat ahead, and the boys were taking turns in looking through a marine glass which they had borrowed from the Chairman. The lifeboat must have been about five miles off when first sighted by the lookout, and it was not long before they could distinguish, by help of the glasses, a number of people in the boat. There seemed to be eight or ten men, and the boat appeared to be about twenty feet long. In the stern was a pile of what looked like bundles or sacks with some one lying down and partly supported by them. The light was still good, and the declining sun shed its rays full upon the object of their attention. When they had come within about a mile of the boat, they observed that it was an old man, probably weak or ill from exhaustion, who lay in the stern.

She was shipping some water forward, although not very much, and one of the men was busy bailing her out a little aft of amidships.

“Maybe she’s leaking a little,” suggested the mate. “These lifeboats often get shrunken seams from not being in the water for a long time. But it wouldn’t take more than twenty-four hours in the water to swell her up tight; and, if that’s why she’s leaking, they can’t have been away from their ship more than a day and a night.”

“Maybe it’s only the surface spray that’s filled her up,” answered the Captain.

The men in the boat were rowing against the wind; and, as they evidently had only one pair of oars on board, they were making very slow headway. As the Bright Wing approached, they slackened their efforts and, putting both oars on the leeward side, merely kept the boat’s head up into the wind. The Captain meantime had been making up his mind how best to approach them, and decided to give the Bright Wing a good “full” to starboard and then to luff up and shoot into the wind so that the lifeboat would be to leeward of the Bright Wing on the starboard side. He timed his little manœuvre with great skill so that the ship’s headway, counteracted by the wind as she shot up with her sails shaking, was just enough to bring her to a standstill at about ten yards to windward of the boat.

“Boat ahoy!” called out the Captain. “Can you row up alongside?”

The oars were immediately adjusted and dipped into the water; and, in a few strokes, the boat had come up to within ten feet.

The sea had still enough motion to make it a somewhat delicate matter to handle the boat so that there would be no bumping or unnecessary jar in getting the people aboard. The mate and Perkins had the largest fenders hanging close to the side-ladder; and Bertie Young threw out a line toward the bow of the boat, while Ellsworth threw out another toward the stern. These were immediately made fast, but the Captain ordered them kept fastened with some slack, so as to allow enough free play between the boat and the vessel to prevent unnecessary strain.

One man, who seemed to be the Skipper, was giving directions on the lifeboat, which kept rising and falling with the waves, alongside the Bright Wing.

The man lying in the stern was old and sick; but his eye watched what was going on, though his body remained motionless. As soon as the lines were made fast, the Skipper on the lifeboat signed to one of the younger men to get aboard the ship; and this one, watching his chance, waited until the boat had risen on the top of a wave,—and then, grasping one of the stays of the Bright Wing, lightly stepped on to the rail, and down upon the deck. He then stood holding out his arms over the side-ladder toward the crew of the boat, while the Skipper held up a small boy of about twelve, who was lifted on deck without any difficulty.

After that, five able-bodied men jumped on board, each watching his chance, until only the Skipper and the sick man were left. Meantime the Captain leaned over the rail and asked the Skipper whether he had any tackle by which the invalid could be raised, as he was evidently unable to walk; the Skipper shook his head, and the Captain then threw him a swimming belt and line which had been used on the Bright Wing in exceptional cases, to teach beginners to swim.

The bowline was then hauled in until the lifeboat drew close to the boat boom, which had been let down by the Captain’s orders. The Skipper then hauled on the boom lines until the stern of the lifeboat lay close to the tip end of the boom. He then strapped the belt around the old man’s waist and fastened the line attached to it with a bowline knot to the end of the boom.

As soon as the patient had been properly strapped up, the Captain gave the signal, and his frail old body was hoisted into the air slightly above the height of the rail. Then the boat boom was swung over the rail, and, as soon as the bent body of the old man had passed over the side, hanging, with a slight swinging motion, about two feet above the deck, Mr. Wentworth took him in his arms and Jack Perkins unfastened the belt. Then they carried him to the day bunk, and the boys supported him with pillows, while Mr. Wentworth and Jack went back to help haul the lifeboat alongside the ship. The Skipper passed up several cases containing a sextant, compass, and chronometer,—also a long tin tube in which was a roll of charts,—and then, in his turn, he stepped on to the deck.

Meantime the old man had been left on the day bunk in charge of Tom, Dick and Chippie, who happened to be the boys nearest at hand, when—suddenly—they noticed that he had turned deadly pale and had evidently fainted.

“Take the pillows from under his head, Tom,” said Dick. “We’ll lay him perfectly flat, and, Chippie, you unbutton his shirt and free his throat and chest. I’ll take off his boots and rub his legs upward.”

“Now, Tom, go below and get some fresh water and a towel.”

The boys worked so quietly together—without any excitement or haste—that hardly any one else knew that the old gentleman was unconscious until gradually the other boys gathered around the day bunk, when Tom said:

“Stand back, fellows, you’re cutting off the air from him; one of you run and report to Mr. Miller what has happened.”

In another minute Mr. Miller was looking over the heads of some of the smaller scouts at the patient on the day bunk, and smiled his approval of the way in which the three boys were working. Just then the old man opened his eyes, and Mr. Miller leaned over to feel his pulse.

“It’s fairly good, and I think we can put back the pillows now, and he’ll feel more comfortable. But we’ve got to keep him warm, Smith, so run down below and get a couple of blankets. We’ll let him stay up in the fresh air as long as we can.”

While all this had been going on, hardly a word had been spoken, excepting by the Captain and the Skipper and the boys at the day bunk; and the sense of relief from suspense—when the Skipper finally stepped aboard—was so great that a cheer arose, beginning at the forecastle and taken up by the boys, to vent their feelings of happiness at the rescue.

Finally the lifeboat itself was fastened astern while the cook began busily preparing hot coffee and broth, and bread and butter.

After the old man had rested for half an hour or so, and had taken a few sips of broth, he was carried down into the officers’ cabin and put into Mr. Wentworth’s bunk; and to Mr. Wentworth the care of the patient was assigned. It was also arranged that there should be a Sea Scout attached to him as special attendant, to be relieved every three hours, and Dick Gray, who was the first to whom this duty was allotted, sat down on the cabin locker next the old man’s bunk with mingled feelings of sympathy and pride.

The watch on duty had stuck to their post admirably during these exceptional circumstances, and now the Captain ordered the sails close hauled and pointed the ship as nearly as possible into the wind while waiting instructions as to their future course.

While taking his coffee in the cabin, the Skipper explained that they were bound for Boston, having lost their ship, the Monmouth from Cardiff, by fire, about fifty miles from the coast.

“There is another lifeboat still adrift, as far as I know,” said he, “which abandoned the ship some hours before we did, but I believe it is likely to have been picked up by some coastwise vessel, just as our own boat has been picked up by the Bright Wing. The Monmouth was a tramp ocean steamer of about two thousand tons, laden with Welsh cannel coal, for Boston. Now the first thing I want to do, after thanking you, gentlemen, for saving our lives, is to get into communication, if possible, with the crew of the other lifeboat; and I suppose the best way to do this would be to get to a telegraph office and communicate directly with the nearest wireless station, or with the British Consul in Boston, or both.”

The Chairman at once sent for the Captain; and, considering the direction of the wind, which had slightly veered to the northward, it was decided to keep on their original course to Vineyard Haven and send out telegrams of inquiry from there. As they were only about thirty miles away, they would probably drop anchor in the Haven in about three or four hours, and before the closing of the telegraph office. After this decision the Captain returned on deck and gave the order to slacken sheets; and in another five minutes the Bright Wing had gathered herself together and was sliding along in a straight line for Vineyard Haven.

It was necessary to detail an extra helper for the cook; and, at half-past five, the regular supper time, all the crew of the lifeboat, with the exception of the sick man and the Skipper, were given seats at the boys’ table; while the Skipper as the guest of the Chairman sat at the officers’ table; eight of the boys had their supper separately, after the others.

During the meal the talk, of course, turned on the shipwreck and fire at sea.

“We discovered the fire,” said the Skipper, “two days before we left the ship. Some of the coal had caught fire in the hold and had gained sufficient headway, before being discovered, to make it impossible to quench it by water. The heat, of course, was intense; and the harder we worked with the pumps at one end, the more the fire seemed to gain in intensity at the other. Finally I gave the order to batten down all the hatches and try to smother it; while, at the same time, we put on full steam in the hope of making Boston Harbor in time to save the ship, although her cargo would, in any case, be a dead loss. But, unfortunately, the great heat in the hold not only made it impossible to stay in the engine room and fire room, but also interfered with the working of the machinery; and it soon became evident that there was nothing to do but to let her burn, so I gave orders for all hands to try and save what they could of their personal belongings.

“One of the stokers was overcome by the heat and would have burned to death at his post if the Chief Officer and I had not got him out of the fire room just in time to avoid being suffocated by the fumes ourselves. There were only two lifeboats aboard, and we lowered the stoker who had so nearly lost his life into the first one.

“Six men and the two assistant engineers took their places in the first lifeboat in charge of the Chief Officer, and were equipped with three pairs of oars, a compass, three cases of food, and two jugs of water. I estimated that they could live for three days, by great economy, and they all felt confident that they would be picked up long before the three days were up.

“It was a relief to me to feel that at least half of the crew were in a fair way to be rescued. The old gentleman in the cabin is my father-in-law, who is on his way out West to join a married daughter, living in Vincennes, Indiana; and the boy is his grandson, whose parents have recently died, and who is going with the old man to find a new home on American soil. I preferred,” said he, “to keep the members of my family with me, although it might possibly have been safer for them to get away in the first lifeboat; but there were still a number of things for me to do before leaving the ship.

“The northeast storm was just about at its tag-end when lifeboat Number 1 left the Monmouth. The wind was in her favor, in a general way, and the water, though still rough, was gradually calming down. After seeing them off and waving my hat as they drew away from the vessel, I went over in my mind all the things that should be got together and put into the second boat. The belongings of the crew did not fill more than three or four sea-bags and were quickly gathered. The cash, the instruments, and the ship’s papers were carefully deposited in the bottom and covered with oilskin; and now, when we were all ready to step aboard, the Second Officer reported that he could find only one pair of oars! There was a mast, but no sail; and we would have to be very careful not to break or lose either of the two oars upon which so much depended.

“But the sky was clearing, and we were all delighted to leave the heat and desolation of the burning ship. It was six o’clock in the evening as we left her; and, although we were obliged to travel slowly, our course lay toward the pleasant gleams of the setting sun—which meant a friendly shore and the beginning of a new chapter.”

While the Skipper was telling his story at the supper table, every man and boy stopped to listen with bated breath; and, as soon as supper was over and the boys had scrambled on deck, Tom, Dick, and Chippie found one another, as if by magnetic attraction, and with the same idea in their minds.

“Did you notice the Skipper was the last man to leave the ship?” said Chippie.

“You bet!” answered Dick and Tom in a single breath. “After you, Pilot!”

CHAPTER XX Vineyard Haven

It was nine o’clock in the evening when the Bright Wing dropped anchor in Vineyard Haven; and the long boat, with a picked crew of four boys, took the Skipper and the Chairman ashore as quickly as possible. Much to their disappointment, however, they found the telegraph office closed; but, at the landing, they met the chaplain of the Sailors’ Bethel, who was an old friend, and he entered very heartily into their plans for trying to communicate with the crew of lifeboat Number 1. He had been at his present post for many years and had much experience of shipwrecked seamen.

“It would probably not be any use to telegraph to the British Consul in Boston to-night,” said he, “for the office would be closed by this time; and, unless your other lifeboat had been picked up by some steamer equipped with wireless, there would probably be no information about her as yet at the radio station. The quickest and best way, both of giving and receiving information, would be to wait until to-morrow morning and then to report to the British Consulate by long-distance telephone. In that way you can get an answer at once, and the Consul will let you know if he is in touch with the other members of your crew. But won’t you come over to the Bethel for a while and make us a little visit?”

“Why, thank you,” answered the Chairman. “We would like to go, I am sure, and I would especially like the boys to see your place.”

The boat’s crew consisted of Dick, Tom, Perkins, and Young; and, on arriving at the Bethel, they found half a dozen seafaring men reading the newspapers and magazines, or playing checkers. When they heard from the chaplain what had happened, they all gathered around the Skipper and plied him with questions about the fire and the wreck, and everything that had occurred since. The Skipper had taken an observation at noon the very day they abandoned the Monmouth, and so was able to tell them just where they had left the burning wreck. He answered all their questions clearly and fully, giving many nautical details which are always interesting to seafaring men.

“I guess you must feel,” dryly remarked an old salt, “as if you had just dropped off the gridiron.”

“Yes,” answered the Skipper with a smile, “but not into the fire. First we dropped into the water to cool off a bit, and then we dropped into the arms of our friends.

“Say, Chaplain,” continued he, addressing their host, “isn’t there something in the Good Book about being ‘covered with His Wings’?”

“Why, yes,” answered the chaplain, “‘He shall cover thee with His feathers, and under His wings shalt thou trust.’”

There was a pause—and all were silent, as they seemed to reflect upon the words quoted by the chaplain.

“Well,” remarked the Skipper meditatively, “I have seen a good many vessels in my life, but I never saw one just like that little schooner we came off just now,—the Bright Wing, they call her. I shouldn’t wonder if she was one of them wings of the Almighty that we are told to trust in.”

“She might be one of the little feathers,” said the Chairman, with a smile. “She floats lightly enough upon the water!”

“If you ever need a friend in a tight place, boys,” resumed the Skipper, “I can recommend the Sea Scouts; I understand that’s what they call the boys aboard of her.”

They must have talked for about two hours; and, when the visitors got up to say good night, some of the men wanted to shake hands, and all of them felt the way soldiers do when they have heard a thrilling tale of battle or adventure. Their attention had been of the deepest kind because the talk was about things that they understood through and through, and cared more about than almost anything else.

The chaplain walked back to the landing with his guests; and, as they neared the wharf, the boys ran ahead to unfasten the painter and get the boat ready.

“Say,” said Dick, “that Skipper’s a corker. What do you think, Jack?”

“He seems to know his business all right,” answered Jack, “and to have kept his head cool in spite of the fire. Sh-h! Take your positions, boys, here they come.”

As the two men got into the boat, the Chairman said:

“We’ll see you again to-morrow morning, Chaplain, and report progress.”

With that they waved good-by and disappeared in the darkness to the rhythmic sound of the oars.

Hammocks had been swung for the men of the Monmouth, partly on the main deck and partly on the berth deck with the boys. There were also two extra bunks in the forecastle prepared for them, and the Skipper shared a double berth in the cabin with the Second Officer. Mr. Wentworth and Mr. Miller slept on the day bunk, facing one another, under the open sky. There was no better place on the ship to sleep in than this, on summer evenings at anchor; but as the day bunk ran directly under the main boom, it was exposed to a steady draught whenever the ship was sailing, and only the green hands occasionally wanted to sleep there when they were under way.

Jimmie, the little cabin boy of the Monmouth, had become great friends with Chippie Smith, and the latter had found a cosy corner for him near his own bunk. It was astonishing to see what a difference it made on the Bright Wing to have such a lot of new people aboard and so many new faces, although the work went on just the same as usual.

Orders had been given privately the night before through the “B. M.’s” to all the Sea Scouts that routine duties were to go on precisely the same as under ordinary circumstances, and that the newcomers were to be considered and treated as guests of the ship; and the hospitality of the ship required that every scout and officer on board should be willing to share the use of his belongings with their guests and feel responsible for their comfort and safety. After consulting with the Chairman and Mr. Miller, regular stations at quarters were assigned to the officers and seamen of the Monmouth and they were also informed of the ship’s regulations through the Skipper and the Second Officer. Among the Monmouth’s men—besides the Second Officer and Mr. Apthorp who had served as steward—were the chief engineer, two firemen, Jimmie, the cabin boy, and three seamen. They fully entered into the spirit of their new situation, and even proposed to the Second Officer that they should form a ship’s band from among their own number; for they had a concertina, a bugle, and a flute among them, which they had been able to carry away from the wreck uninjured. The Skipper thought they had better wait awhile before making permanent plans, for, much as they enjoyed the good time they were having on the Boy Scout ship, they could hardly, under the circumstances, expect to stay there long.

It was Thursday evening when they reached Vineyard Haven, and on Friday morning, immediately after “colors”, the Chairman and the Skipper went ashore again, in the launch this time, accompanied by Mr. Wilson, the mate, and the boatswain. When they returned, two of the boat’s crews were out for rowing practice, while the two other sections were on deck splicing ropes and practising their bandaging for “first aid.”

The Chairman knew, of course, that the Skipper would first of all want to have a talk with his own men and tell them the result of his effort to communicate with the Consul; and so he offered them the use of the cabin, and they all trooped down the after companionway. In about ten minutes the Skipper put his head above the cabin house and invited the Chairman to come down and join them.

“Mr. Chairman,” said he, “I have told my men here, including Mr. Apthorp, my father-in-law, what we learnt over the telephone this morning. Of course, we are mighty glad at the news that the crew of lifeboat Number 1 was picked up by the Mauretania and taken to New York. So long as they are in communication with the British Consul in Boston, we need not decide anything about meeting them until we get to his office. But there is one thing we’ve got to attend to straight off, and that is to shake hands with you, and every man and boy aboard your ship. There’s no way that we can make a return, except by passing along what you have done for us to some other poor devils, if we should ever get the chance. So, all we have to say now, sir, is ‘God bless you’, and put us ashore as quick as you can.”

“I think,” answered the Chairman, “we had better let you off at Wood’s Hole, which is about the nearest railroad terminus on the mainland. It is only about six miles from here, as the crow flies, and about three hours by rail from Boston. I am sorry to part so soon, just as we were beginning to get acquainted,” continued he, “for, if this wind holds, it will not take us long to get across the sound. What does your father-in-law think of this plan?”

Mr. Apthorp had insisted on putting on his regular clothes that morning, and was sitting in one of the cabin chairs when he was thus referred to.

“I think, sir,” said he, “the plan is a good one; I am beginning to feel like a new man from the rest I have had on board your ship; but we crowd you up more than is comfortable for you. I advise you to get rid of us as quickly as you can, sir, because, when we get good and used to your way of seafaring, we’ll all want to stay with you forever!”

There was nobody ashore, so they were able to set sail at once. Dick Gray was on duty as messenger that morning, and he took the message to the Captain to get under way as soon as he was ready.

The sails were set, and the anchor weighed in short order, for the crew of the Monmouth insisted on being allowed to do their share at the ropes and windlass. A stiff breeze was blowing from the same direction as the night before,—a little north of northeast,—so that they would have to tack out against the wind until they passed the mouth of the harbor, and then would have a straight course for Wood’s Hole, with the wind abeam on the starboard tack. But, just as they were about to hoist the anchor, the chaplain of the Bethel arrived alongside in his launch and offered them a tow. This, of course, was a great help, as the wind was too strong for a tow by the ship’s launch, so the offer was gratefully accepted, and it became unnecessary to tack against the wind.

The chaplain’s launch was a powerful boat which he was in the habit of using to visit incoming vessels and to bring their crews ashore to the Bethel. It did not take him long to tow the Bright Wing out to where she could head directly for Wood’s Hole, and then he cast off the line and waved his hand for good-by.

Ellsworth was up in the bow at the time, with Dick Gray, and immediately began hauling in the line and coiling it up in its place. Dick watched the launch disappear in the distance until it was only a speck upon the water.

“I guess he’s done his good turn for to-day,” said he to Ellsworth.

“Yes,” replied the “B. M.”, “but you can’t trust that sort of fellow; he’s likely to do a half dozen more before the day’s over.”

“That’s right,” assented Dick, “I suppose you get the habit, like—after a while.”

CHAPTER XXI Disrating and Promotion

The Sea Scouts were drawn up in line as their guests went over the side at Wood’s Hole, a short time afterward, accompanied by Mr. Miller, who saw them off on the train for Boston. As the train was moving out of the station, Jimmie was sitting by the open window and Mr. Miller reached up his jack-knife.

“Here, Jimmie,” said he, “is a souvenir of the Bright Wing. Get a lanyard and put it round your neck and it will bring you luck.”

The next moment the train was out of sight behind the station, and Mr. Miller turned to walk down to the water.

“It’s funny,” thought he to himself, “I feel as if I had known that bunch of men for years, and yet it is only twenty-four hours since they came on board.”

As soon as he had returned to the ship and reported to the Chairman, they weighed anchor and passed between the islands into Buzzard’s Bay on the way to the Cape Cod Canal. It seemed a tame piece of business to tow through the “ditch”, when they might have had a grand old sail around the Cape again, but they were due in Hull on Saturday morning, at the latest, and another ship’s crew was waiting to get aboard the following Monday.

A special conference of officers was called by the Chairman immediately after dinner, where the question of Ronald Jones’s fitness as a petty officer was brought up and carefully discussed. None of the officers felt that he was able to carry the responsibilities of a “B. M.”, and they knew that he would lower the standard of discipline if allowed to remain in this position. It was voted to disrate him, in the usual way, by asking the Chairman to explain the matter to the boy carefully beforehand; so that, if possible, he would himself see the justice of the decision.

Then the question came up as to who would be his successor. The next day—which was Saturday—was the regular time for awarding ratings and promotions at the end of the cruise, and it was also the time appointed for the settlement of the question of Dick Gray’s commendation for efficient conduct during the Salem fire. The idea of his promotion to succeed Jones occurred to everybody present at the same time. The matter of his foul play at baseball was considered absolutely settled and atoned for by the sincere and manly confession he had made of his fault, and the complete change in his bearing and work since that event.

“That boy was the greatest kicker on board at the beginning of the cruise,” said Mr. Miller, “and even objected to striking the bell on time, but now he positively enjoys being punctual and is one of the most trustworthy boys in the ship’s company.”

“Apart from the other matter,” remarked the Chairman, “that is just the quality we need in a ‘B. M.’, provided he is far enough along in his seamanship; and the spirit he showed in coming to the rescue of Smith and little Brown, the other day, in itself speaks volumes for his gain in manliness and efficiency.”

“We all feel the same way about that,” replied the Captain; “and, besides, there was never any trouble about Gray’s understanding things. It was only a question with him of being willing and straightforward. He seems to have learnt that now, and it won’t be hard to put him wise where he may be lacking in points of seamanship.”

As the end of the cruise was drawing near, it was decided to call the company to special quarters that very afternoon, as soon as the Chairman had finished his talks with Jones and Dick; for, of course, it was necessary that the latter should be warned of his coming promotion.

Boys who read this book are familiar enough by this time with the way official announcements are made at quarters,—the main idea being that whatever is said is intended to be publicly noted by everybody on board.

In his talk with Jones, the Chairman explained carefully the difference between the duties of an officer and his official relations to the men under his command, on the one hand, and the actions of a vulgar boss, or “bucko mate” on the other.

“The latter,” said the Chairman, “is a man who puts his own self-will in the place of law, because his mind is not large enough to grasp the idea of law. His only notion is that he is bigger than the other fellow, and he wants to prove his bigness. The true officer, on the other hand, is personally humble and knows that his only authority comes from the law which he represents, and which he himself must be even more careful to obey than the best of his subordinates.

“You see, Jones, a true officer respects the personal liberty of his men so long as it does not interfere with duty. For instance, a boy has a right to judge for himself, on ordinary occasions, whether he has had enough to eat or not. It is an officer’s duty to respect his personal liberty as well as to enforce whatever has to do with his official duty. If a boy is not doing his work properly, he should be reprimanded and reported, if necessary; but an officer has no right to make him stand on his head, or to give him any merely arbitrary command in the name of his official authority. Do you see what I mean?”

“I think I do,—a little, sir,” answered Jones. “You mean that orders should be given for the good of the whole thing, and not just because an officer wants this or that done for the fun of it.”

“That’s right, Jones, and I can tell you it is a great thing, that, and is worth thinking a lot about. It’s a big principle or law of life. If a man is big enough to grasp it, so that he can carry it out in his actions, he has in him the making of an officer or leader, because he inspires confidence in others. You have proved that you do not possess this quality now, but you have shown me that you are capable of understanding it, which is the first step toward becoming that kind of a fellow. Whether you ever do so or not depends on how much you care to work for it. If you care enough, and will give up always thinking of yourself first, that will be so much to the good.”

“Well,” said Jones, “it’s all new to me, sir, and I’d like sometime to have another chance. I’m not sure that I am big enough, sir; it’s like being in new waters where you don’t know your bearings.”

“We are here to give you your bearings, Jones,” replied the Chairman, “but you are the only person that can supply the headway; and, as I said, if you care enough, and will give up other things for the sake of it, you will have all the strength you need for this. If you should come aboard next summer, with a good record ashore from now on, I, for one, would be in favor of giving you another chance as a ‘B. M.’”

“Thank you, sir,” exclaimed Jones, “I feel as if I’d like to try.”

“You know you will be helping us if you succeed, don’t you? In work like this we all need one another’s help; and, perhaps one of these days you’ll be passing it along to some other fellow.”

As Jones stepped on deck he was surprised that he did not feel more unhappy about his failure to make good. It was not that he did not care, for he cared more than ever before. He had not understood the responsibilities of a petty officer before; and, now that he did understand them, he was not surprised that he had failed; he wondered, rather, that he had not made a worse botch of it.

“Now,” thought he, “I’ll go and tell the fellows of my section what’s happened, and explain to them what I’ve found out.”

The Chairman’s talk with Dick was very brief.

“The officers are of the opinion, Gray, that you are doing your work better than when you first came on board; do you think they are mistaken?”

“Well, sir,” answered Dick, “I’m sure of one thing; it’s not half as good as it ought to be, but I do care more than I did. I never knew what ‘trustworthy’ meant, sir, until that day when I found out that I had been untrustworthy, and had taken a mean advantage. I learnt something that time, and I guess I’ll never forget it.”

“I believe you never will, Dick, and the officers of the ship agree with me that you should have more responsibility laid upon you. There is to be a special call to quarters in half an hour and you are to be appointed ‘B. M.’ of the first section, second division.”

Dick looked up with evident surprise and exclaimed:

“Half an hour, sir! That’s a short time to get on to my job!”

“I trust you for that, my boy. Many of the duties you are, of course, already familiar with. The backbone of the job is to see that your men learn the same sense of responsibility that you have gained yourself. As regards necessary points of seamanship, in which you may be lacking at present, go to the Chief ‘B. M.’; and, if necessary, he will pass you on to the boatswain. If you realize what you don’t know, you can very soon find out all you need to know. The worst thing is to imagine that you know when you don’t.”

“What’s the matter with Jones, sir?” asked Dick.

“I think Jones is coming along all right,” replied the Chairman. “His appointment was a mistake, although it would have been difficult to know it beforehand. There are other things that he must learn first before he can be a petty officer, and I believe that he has begun to learn them already. You might go up and have a little talk with him before quarters.”

The two boys had their little talk then, and it turned out to be the first of many talks—some very long ones, in which they exchanged ideas and compared notes. That afternoon on the Bright Wing was the beginning of a friendship which bids fair to last all their lives.

CHAPTER XXII Friendly Things and a New Point of View

They got through the Canal late in the afternoon; and, during the playtime between supper and prayers, it seemed as if the boys were keen on making the most of their last evening on board.

There was a sparring match between Jack Perkins and the boatswain for heavyweights, and between Dick Gray and Chippie Smith for lightweights. Then there was wrestling between Bertie Young and Ellsworth, and some “cock fighting” between the younger boys. After that the boatswain got out his fiddle, and half a dozen of the crew danced the hornpipe, both single and double—including the Captain, who, in addition to the hornpipe, performed the “skipping rope dance” for which he was especially famous, and which was the envy of all beholders.

“There isn’t a boy on the ship who is as lightfooted as the Captain,” remarked Mr. Wentworth.

“And there isn’t a man who has a better head on him,” said Jack Perkins. “Three cheers for Captain Goodfellow!—Cool and steady!—Always ready! Rah, Rah, Rah! Good-fel-low!”

As the cheers arose, all eyes looked around to find the Captain; but he had a way of disappearing when bouquets were handed around and didn’t turn up again until it was time for him to take his trick at the wheel.

Meantime, while all the merriment was going on, Billy Brown crept away from the crowd and went forward of the windlass to think a little by himself. He was feeling very badly; and, after a while, Dick, who happened to be standing by the starboard fore-rigging, noticed him there.

“What’s the matter, Billy?” he asked, and sat down on a coil of rope beside him.

Brown did not answer at first; and then, with some difficulty, muttered:

“Well—you see—Dick—it’s the swimming!”

And then, changing his manner, as if the floodgates of his grief or his anger were opened—he broke out in a torrent of words, and Dick hardly knew whether he was going to cry or challenge him to fight.

“What do you s’pose is the matter with me? I’m scared blue in the water, and I can’t seem to help it. The old man says I’ve got to get over it, but I don’t see how I’m going to! Blast you—how do you do it?”

Dick thought for a few seconds and then remarked quietly:

“Well, seems to me I’ve heard that, when you are afraid to do a thing, there’s only one way out, and that is to do it.”

“Isn’t that just what I’m doing?” said Bill, with vehemence. “I plunge in all right, but it’s after I’ve got in that I’m scared if anything different happens!”

There was another pause, and a longer one than the last, and then Dick’s face lit up with a bright smile.

“I have it,” said he; “look, Billy, it’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

“What?” asked Bill incredulously.

“It’s because you don’t feel friendly with the water. Now, don’t say a word until I tell you what I mean. My Dad, he has a story that I’ve heard him tell fifty times, about when he was a young man and was walking along the road for two or three days with two other fellows to a lumber camp in Maine. He says whenever they came to a village, the dogs of course would run out to see who they were; and there was one among them (whom Dad calls Bob) that the dogs would always bark at much worse than they did at Dad and the other fellow. Well, Bob didn’t like getting particular attention from the dogs; and, after a while, he got so cross that he used to put stones in his pocket all ready to throw at them. Dad and the other fellow kept wondering what it was about Bob that made the dogs hate him as if he were a natural enemy; and, finally, they decided it was because Bob was scared of the dogs. Then they began asking him questions about his home and what he used to do when he was a boy, and they found that he never had a dog of his own, and didn’t understand dogs.

“‘I don’t like ’em,’ said he, ‘and I guess I come by it rightly, for Mother she was fond of cats, and never would have a dog about the place.’

“Dad,—he mulled over this, and he got more and more sure and certain that the reason the dogs didn’t like Bob was because he was scared of them. Dogs like folks who are friendly with ’em, says Dad, and when you’re scared you’re only thinking about yourself and your own safety, and so you can’t be friendly.”

“But I don’t understand,” answered Billy. “I can see how you can be friendly with a dog, but how can you be friendly with the sea when it’s liable to drown you?”

“How can you be friendly with a dog when he’s liable to bite you?” retorted Dick. “The sea is no more liable to drown you, if you treat it right, than the dog is liable to bite you if you’re not afraid of him.”

Just then Ellsworth and Chippie came up and joined them, and Dick repeated earnestly to them what he and Brown had been talking about.

“Of course,” said Ellsworth, “you can’t expect to get along in the sea unless you keep the rules of the sea. A bird knows the rules of the air, but can’t get along under water because he isn’t made so that he can keep the rules of the water. But you and I, Bill, are made so that we can learn the rules of the sea and of the air, as well as those of the land, if we want to, and aren’t scared to try. You have to have a brain to keep your balance, wherever you are—and your brain has to know how to do it; and it can learn if it isn’t scared. For instance, take the rules of the land; you can keep up on the two wheels of a bicycle so long as you’re moving, because you’ve got a brain; but the bicycle can’t by itself, and falls over unless you prop it.”

“What’s that got to do with swimming?” asked Billy in a dull tone.

“Why,” answered Ellsworth, “you’ve got to learn to balance in the water and on the water, just as you do on a bicycle,—only it’s a little different; and, if you do, the water will prevent you from drowning. When you know how to balance on the water, you can lie down on it and float, very much as you’d lie down on the floor; and it will keep you up, so long as your balance is right, in the same way that the floor does. But the hard thing about it is that you can’t keep your balance if you’re scared.”

“And,” broke in Dick, “if you’re friendly with the water, you can’t be scared.”

“That’s a funny thing,” said Brown thoughtfully, “I guess I don’t understand the water. Just the same as that friend of your Dad’s didn’t understand dogs. Is that what you mean, Dickie?”

“You bet,” answered Dick, “that’s just right. But you don’t seem to see that the sea is friendly. All it asks is for you to understand and keep its rules, the same as you have to keep the regulations on board ship.”

Brown had brightened up a little during the last part of the conversation; but, after a while, he grew sober again.

“What are you fellows talking about, anyway? The sea isn’t a man that can be friendly or unfriendly any more than a table or a chair can. It hasn’t got as much brains as a dog! It can’t even bark, let alone talk to a fellow.”

“Do you hear that, Chippie?” asked Dick, with a smile, “he says the sea can’t talk! It seems to me I’ve heard it roaring and bellowing among the rocks lots of times. I’ve heard it laughing, too, only it speaks to your eyes as well as to your ears. It smiles too, sometimes, and sometimes it looks cross; but, on the whole, it’s a great big friendly thing, and is a mighty handy help in getting from one place to another.”

Chippie and Ellsworth listened with interest to what Dick was saying, and it was a wonder to them that Billy didn’t see it just as they did.

“He’s right, when he says he doesn’t understand the sea,” thought Dick. “The sea not able to speak! You might as well say that the sun isn’t able to shine and that the stars can’t blink at a fellow.”

At this point Ellsworth and Chippie left them and joined some of the other boys on the day bunk.

Billy was silent for a long time and Dick sat by, waiting for him to say something.

“Do you know, Dick,” said Billy, after a long pause, “I’ve never thought about things that way in my life before! Does it mean that everything is friendly if you treat it right?”

“Yes,” answered Dick, “something like that.”

“But how about shipwrecks, when hundreds and hundreds of people are drowned?”

“Shouldn’t wonder,” answered Dick slowly, “if—a good many times—the laws of the sea were broken; and then, of course—when the right time comes—death is just what a fellow needs!”

“What do you mean?” asked Billy, almost fiercely.

“Well, Dad says death is like changing cars on the railroad. If we didn’t change cars, we wouldn’t get to where we belong. He says it’s only a station in life, and the folks who have been friendly with the other things along the road, are always friendly with death.”

“Well, that beats anything I ever heard!” exclaimed Billy. “How do you know when ‘the right time comes’?”

“Well—there’s a Conductor—he’s friendly, too. He tells you when it’s time to change cars, and he never makes a mistake. We needn’t worry about that, Dad says.”

“I’d like to see your Dad, Dick!”

“Maybe you will some day, Bill; he’d like to see you, I’m dead certain.”

“What makes your Dad like that, Dick? My Dad died when I was a little shaver, but I never heard of his saying such things.”

“Well, maybe my Dad didn’t always feel that way himself. I shouldn’t wonder, Billy, if he used to have to do a lot of fighting in himself—something like what you’re doing.”

“I’d like to see him—sure!” repeated Brown.

“You could come over any time,” said Dick cordially; “only Sunday would be the best day. Your town, Northbridge, is the same as ours, only we generally use the East Northbridge station.”

“I’d like to mighty well! Maybe next Sunday! Has your Dad always been a farmer?”

“Yes, and he’s a grand farmer, Father is! You ought to see him with his live stock. There isn’t a calf, or a pup, or a chicken, that he doesn’t know as well as you know me; and they know him, too. Oh, he’s friendly, is Dad—and he’s brave, too!”

Just as the “B. M.” of the watch was beginning to blow the call for prayers, Dick turned to Brown and said:

“Billy, if I were you, when I got scared in the water, I’d just roll right over on my back and float, and then wait till the scare blew over.”

“I’ll try it,” said Bill, and slipped down the companionway.

CHAPTER XXIII The Four Square Club

At prayers the talk turned on fighting, and Brown got a little mixed as to how you could be friendly and fight at the same time.

“A fellow told me to-day, sir,” said he, “that being friendly helps your grit. I don’t see how you can fight without grit, nor how you can fight and be friendly at the same time.”

“That does seem funny,” answered the Chairman, “but haven’t you ever noticed, when fellows are fighting, that the fellow who gets mad and excited is apt to get the worst of it?”

“Well, I never thought of it, but maybe that’s so,” replied Brown.

“You bet it’s so!” exclaimed Chippie Smith. “It’s as bad as losing your wind, sir! You begin to hit wild—I know that’s right, Billy!”

“Of course it is our sacred duty to fight at certain times,” went on the Chairman. “For instance, our ‘Duty to Our Country’ requires it in time of war, just as ‘Our Duty to God’ requires us, in addition, to fight against temptation every day of our lives. But, in both these cases, we are fighting for something as well as against something, and we are friendly with the something we are fighting for,—whether it is our country and the folks at home, or whether it is the strong and clean man within ourselves. When you are fighting with a big, friendly feeling in your heart, you can’t feel mean and hateful, even to a mean and hateful enemy. You will hate the meanness, but that will only make you sorry for the poor devil who is under the control of his own weakness; you will keep a clear mind and a steady hand, and you will be able to give good, strong blows,—straight from the shoulder. If you get the worst of it, you’ll do your best to come up smiling; and, if you punish the other fellow, you will shake hands with him right away.”

“It’s the spirit you fight with, isn’t it, sir?” suggested Mr. Miller.

“Yes,” answered the Chairman, “when a man has conquered his own bad temper or anger, he becomes able to fight in a generous spirit; and that is probably what your friend meant, Brown, when he said that being friendly helped you to be brave. You see it helps you to keep your mind quiet, and so to keep your judgment true and your balance even.”

“My balance! Yes—that’s right,” thought Billy to himself, with eagerness, thinking of what Ellsworth had been saying just a little while before.

They reached their old anchorage at Hull at about ten o’clock that evening, and the night watch went on duty every hour from then on. Most of the boys below were so fast asleep that they did not hear the rattle of the chain; but there was one who lay awake for some time after, and that was Billy Brown.

The most important of the anchor watches is from four to five in the morning, because all the lights have to be put out at sunrise, in addition to making out the log and the other duties. It so happened that Dick Gray came on at four o’clock, and Tom Sheffield at five. After putting out the lights and looking around for a while in the early morning light, Dick sat down behind the binnacle to write up the log. Just as he had finished his task, he heard a slight splashing sound in the water; and, by the time he had got amidships, he noticed a boy’s head swimming away from the ship’s side.

He was so surprised, that—for the moment—he did not know what to do; and, as he was trying to make up his mind, he saw the boy turn over and float upon his back, with his face toward the ship. He at once recognized Brown and remembered the talk they had had the evening before.

“Gee! the little beggar is testing himself!” thought Dick. “He seems to be getting along all right. He’s doing just what I told him to, and will soon make himself feel at home in the water.”

Billy didn’t stay on his back long, but went on toward a catboat that was moored about fifty yards away from the ship. As Dick stood watching, the boy’s head disappeared behind her bow and then reappeared again around her stern; and, to Dick’s great satisfaction, he saw that Billy was heading back toward the ship. But he seemed to like his little manœuvre of rolling on to his back, for he repeated it several times on the home stretch.

“He doesn’t seem to have thought how he is going to get back over the side,” continued Dick, soliloquizing; “I guess I’d better put the side-ladder down for him.”

Dick was so absorbed in watching the swimmer that he almost forgot to ring the ship’s bell at five o’clock; and, just as he was doing it, Tom crawled sleepily out of the companionway and joined him.

“What do you s’pose, Tom,” said Dick eagerly, but in a low voice, “there’s Billy Brown got into the water, unbeknownst to any one, five minutes ago, and has swum round that boat there, fifty yards off, and is swimming back again—rolling over on his back every now and then, like an old sea-dog, to take a nap. What do you suppose has got into him?”

“Dunno,” said Tom, rubbing his eyes. “Is he the fellow that nearly drowned Chip the other day in a funk?”

“Sure,” replied Dick, decidedly, “that very same. Something must have oiled his works inside.”

“It beats me,” said Tom, and walked off to look at the log.

When Billy got near the ship he noticed the side-ladder and gave Dick a grin which showed that he appreciated the help. He climbed up all dripping and was for grabbing Dick round the waist in his eagerness to give vent to his feelings, not only of gratitude for the ladder, but of relief at the result of his self-imposed test.

“Keep your slimy flippers off me, you porpoise!” said Dick and grinned back at him with sympathy and pleasure.

“Well, you’re a good ’un,” said Brown. “I should have been in a fix if it hadn’t been for the side-ladder. I never thought of how I was going to get back.”

“Get below, now, as quickly as you can,” said Dick, “or maybe the anchor watch will put you on report.”

“Don’t say a word,” said Bill; “I got special permission from the old man last night!”

He then dripped down the companionway to his bunk and managed to escape attention, while Dick went forward and got a mop to wipe up the pool at the spot where they had been talking.

After the regular morning duties were over, the officers met in the cabin to hand in their marks in the different branches of instruction during the cruise. Then the boys were called down, one at a time, to submit to a final test, and it was three hours before they were all through their examinations. The total result was that eleven boys had passed for the rating of Ordinary Seaman, five for Able Seaman, and half a dozen had received commendations in different subjects,—including three in advanced swimming.

Special quarters were held immediately after dinner, and the ratings and commendations given out as a result of the examination.

The sails were then set for the last time, all hands called to the windlass, the anchor weighed, and the Bright Wing quietly dropped down the harbor to her berth in the Navy Yard.

But, before she got there, an important matter was settled by the members of the Triangle Club, who held their meeting in the jib netting. It was Tom who called the meeting to order, and Dick explained the important change he had noticed early that morning in Billy Brown.

“I tell you what, boys,” said he, “it’s no joke for a fellow to break up a habit like that, and I’m dead certain that Billy has made a good start. He’ll make a fine swimmer before long, and he’s shown a lot of grit. I vote we make him a member.”

Tom objected at first, as he hadn’t known Billy particularly well; but, when he realized the struggle that the boy had been through, he heartily gave his consent.

The only difficulty was how to fit a fourth member into the “triangle”; and finally Dick proposed that they should change the name and call it the “Four Square Club.” He then pulled a book out of his pocket; and on the fly-leaf drew the following device:

Billy was immediately informed of his unanimous election and accepted the honor with surprise and delight.

“You’ll have to go through your initiation when we get home!” said Chippie with a grin.

Then came a final “sweep down, fore and aft” to clean up the deck; and, after the sails had all been carefully furled and the gear stowed away, the last good-bys were said and the “Four Square Club” left the dock for the station and took the train to Northbridge together. Dick went along as far as East Northbridge—one station nearer—and the last thing he said was:

“Remember the meeting on Wednesday, boys, and we’ll put Bill through the initiation. Gee!” said he, looking out of the window as the train slowed up, “I’ll be blowed if that isn’t Dad out there now, come to fetch me, with the little mare!”

Every member of the Club turned to gaze at Dick’s father, and watched Dick sling his sea-bag into the back of the open buggy. Then, as he lightly took his seat, the mare, who had been prancing a little, gave a slight spring forward, and they were off.

“Did you notice,” said Tom to the other fellows, “how he gave the mare her head? No hauling and tugging at her mouth!”

“You bet I did!” answered Bill.

CHAPTER XXIV A Guest of the Club

The initiation of Billy took place at the old shack on Duck Island a few days later; and the first formal meeting of the Four Square Club was held immediately after.

Tom called the meeting to order as usual, and they all four sat down on the floor in the customary way; only this time they were careful to sit in the four corners of an imaginary square instead of in a triangle. In the middle of the square thus formed Tom had laid a small iron hoop which he had found in the cellar, and explained that it was intended as a memorial of the manhole in Captain Craven’s turret, like the circle in the center of the square in the Club emblem, and it was voted to use the hoop as a symbol at every formal meeting.

Then the Charter of the Club was read by Dick, and, after that, there was a pause which Tom was the first to break:

“Say, fellows, do you remember what it was the old Admiral said to George Gray about Captain Craven after he had told him the story?”

“I remember,” answered Chippie, “it was something about how the Captain had been doing the same thing every day, all his life, and so he was all prepared to do it then.”

“How’s that?” asked Bill.

“Why, you know, he had to take an oath—the same as we do—and he had been working hard to do his duty and keep his oath in all his work, no matter what it was,” said Tom.

“And so,” Dick went on, “when it suddenly was his duty to get drowned to save the other fellow—why, he just kept right on, doing his duty, and got drowned!”

“Oh, I see,” said Bill, with a little shiver. “Was he friendly with the water?”

“He was friendly enough not to run away from it, anyway!” answered Chippie.

“I say we put that all down in the Charter,” exclaimed Dick.

“Dick!” said Billy earnestly, “I wish we could talk to your Dad about that, and see what he’d say. You know you said I might see him sometime!”

“That’s a grand idea,” chimed in Chippie. “We’ll ask him to come down to the next meeting! What do you think, Dick?”

“Well, he could come down any time after working hours,” said Dick reflectively. “But I tell you what I’d better do. I think I’d better tell him all about the baseball game and what I did first.”

“Yes, sir!” replied Bill earnestly, “and tell him about my funk and all. The more he knows about us the better. What do you say, Tom?”

“I say the same thing,” said Tom.

“What I like about this Club is, that we’re all working together for something that’s worth while, and that something is all in the Charter. But—Gee!—the more I think of it, the bigger it seems to me; and an older fellow, like Dick’s Dad, ought to be able to help us a lot.”

Then the meeting adjourned; and that evening at home, Dick had a heart-to-heart talk with his father and told him everything of importance that had happened during the cruise.

Mr. Gray’s face clouded over when Dick made his confession about his foul play at second base, but it soon began to brighten as Dick spoke of the torment which began working inside of him afterwards from time to time, and finally the revolt of his spirit against any further deception when he was about to receive the commendation for having saved the little girl’s cat.

“You gained a victory over yourself, then, Dick, and I thank God! There has always been a mean streak in you which showed itself in what we used to call your ‘dark moods.’ You conquered that mean streak then, and you will be able to conquer it again. Have you had any of the dark moods since?”

“Yes, father, but they have been lighter, and I have been able to drive them away without much trouble.”

“Good,” replied his father, “you could not have told me anything that would have given me more real satisfaction. God bless you, and help you to keep on the same track.”

Mr. Gray listened attentively and with great interest, also, to the story of Billy Brown’s struggle with fears, and every now and then asked a brief question to make sure that he had understood all that had occurred, and all that had been going on in the boys’ minds. He had never heard the story of Captain Craven before, and was delighted with it, as an example of the spirit of loyalty to duty and heroic courtesy.

Finally, when Dick explained the reason why the boys wanted him to come to their next meeting:

“Sure!” he exclaimed warmly, “I wouldn’t miss it, Dick! I’ll explain it to your mother, too, and she wouldn’t have me miss it, either! It means a lot to me to see you and these other lads catching on—while you are still boys—to ideas which it has taken me a lifetime to reach, through all kinds of experience, and some of it pretty tough, too. You tell the other boys that I’ll be there, and that their motto means just as much to me as it does to them.”

At the time of the meeting the following Sunday, Dick had brought over a chair for Mr. Gray to sit in while the four boys took their accustomed places, and he assured them that he would be quite ready to adopt their charter as a rule of life. Then, lowering his voice, and at the same time talking more earnestly, he said:

“Dick has told me, boys, of some of your difficulties and victories during this cruise, and your desire to carry on the same warfare against evil, now that you have come ashore again. I believe that there is more of the man in every one of you than there was when you first started on this cruise.”

“Would you like us to read the Charter, sir, before we begin?” asked Tom. “Because it’s about that especially that we want you to tell us. Say, Bill, you ask him what you want to know. But we’ll hear the Charter first.”

So Dick read the Charter through and ended with the words: “and so Captain Craven gave up his life to do his duty as a good scout, and to keep his oath and law; and so, to remind them of his brave and courteous act, the officers of the navy have the custom of saying: ‘After you, Pilot’, when one of them steps back to make way for another; and also, because we want to be reminded of his brave and courteous act and faithfulness to his oath and law, we—the members of the Four Square Club of Duck Island—have written out this story to read once in a while, and have taken ‘After you, Pilot’, as our motto.”

After a little pause, Mr. Gray said: “What was it, Bill, that you wanted especially to know?”

Bill felt a little shy, but he was already beginning to control his feelings more, and so pushed through the shyness and began to talk.

“At the last meeting, sir, Dick was saying that there ought to be something else in the Charter about how it was that Captain Craven was strong enough to do the way he did. And the old Admiral, when he first told the story to George Gray, he said that it was because Captain Craven was in the habit of doing his duty every day of his life—no matter what it was. What do you think of that, sir?”

“I think that’s right,” replied Mr. Gray, “and it would be a good thing to put it in the Charter, because it shows that each one of us can be preparing every day to do whatever may be required of us in an emergency.”

“‘Be Prepared’ is the Boy Scout motto, sir,” said Chippie.

“I know it is,” continued Mr. Gray, “and ‘Be Prepared’ is the motto to act upon every day of our lives, if we want to be strong enough to say: ‘After you, Pilot’, when we get our chance.”

“I see that, sir,” answered Bill, “but if you want to have grit in the water, you have to be friendly with it; and what I wanted to know was, whether Captain Craven was friendly with the water, and if that was the reason he did not mind drowning?”

Mr. Gray thought for quite a while before answering this question; and, while they were waiting in silence for his answer, the boys listened to the lapping of the little waves on the beach near by.

“Of course you know, Bill, no one can say for certain just what passed through that man’s mind; but I, for my part, would say that he had done lots of things in his life that were harder to do than just dying, and that there was no reason for his not feeling friendly with the water. I think he did.”

“It makes me shiver,” said Bill, “to think of getting drowned, in spite of the fact that I am able and willing to swim in deep water any time; it’s being friendly with the water that’s helped me to get my balance, but—Captain Craven—he knew he was going to drown, so what was the use of his keeping his balance?”

“I guess, Bill, that Captain Craven loved the water because he had conquered all fear of it years ago, if he ever had any, and some of the happiest times of his life had been spent in doing his duty at sea. But I’m thinking that he had another habit that prepared him for this emergency. If he hadn’t been drowned at that time he would have reported to Admiral Farragut, his superior officer, every detail of the explosion; and now,—when there was no possibility of reporting to the Admiral,—he may have thought to himself, ‘this drowning will be over in a few minutes, and then I’ll report to the Great Captain, whose child I am and whose will is my duty, wherever I see it.’”

“Won’t you come to another of our meetings some time, sir?” asked Tom after a pause.

“That I will,” answered Dick’s father, “and I tell you what it is, boys; I won’t forget this meeting in a hurry, either!”

As they got up and left the shack, the sun was just setting.

“It’s time for ‘colors’,” said Tom, “will you give the command, sir?” and all stood at attention while Dick slowly lowered the flag.

The End

Transcriber’s Notes: