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There was space to spare on the seat beside Hal, and into this Jack Benson sank. “Say, you ought to sleep until afternoon,” was Hastings’s next greeting, but Jack was looking out of the conning tower at the scene around him. The three craft were leaving the coast directly behind. About three hundred yards away, abeam, steamed the “Hudson” at a nine-knot gait.
Right plentifully were these cadet midshipmen avenging themselves for having had to say “sir” to these young submarine boys that day. “Woof!” breathed Jack, as soon as breath entered his body again. Eph clenched his fists tightly, as Hal continued to go higher and higher. But at last Hastings’s ordeal was over. “I suppose they’ll try that on me!” gritted Eph Somers to himself. “If they do—”
As he held it up young Hastings’s face went as white as chalk. “Do you see this?” he demanded, hoarsely. “Filed, crazily, and it also looks as though the inner end had been heated and tampered with,” gasped Jack Benson. “This, sir,” complained Hal, turning around to face the naval officer in charge, “looks like a direct attempt to tamper with and damage the engine.
Overheat a piston, and then try to correct it with a file?” cried young Somers, disgustedly. “The crazy blacksmith! He ought to be set to shoeing snails—that’s all he’s fit for.” “It looks that way,” Hal assented, smiling. Artful, clever Hal! He had carried it all off so coolly and naturally that Sam Truax, who had been closely studying Hastings’s face from the background, was wholly deceived.
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