Back Aa

Submarine Boys and the Middies

<h1>CHAPTER II: HOW EPH FLIRTED WITH SCIENCE</h1> Jack Benson was the first of the trio to move. Without a word he broke into a run, heading for the narrow little shingle of beach. “Got an idea, Captain?” shouted Jacob Farnum, darting after his young submarine skipper. “Yes, sir!” floated back over Jack's shoulder. “Then what's at the bottom—” “Eph and the boat, both together, or I miss my guess,” Captain Jack shouted back as he halted at the water's edge, where a rowboat lay hauled up on the shore. Jacob Farnum's face showed suddenly pallid as he, also, reached the beach. Hal, who was in the rear, did not seem so much startled. “Do you think Eph has gone off on a cruise all alone?—that he has come to any harm?” gasped the shipbuilder. “I don't know, but I'm not going to worry a mite about Eph Somers until I have to,” retorted Jack Benson, easily. “Eph can generally take care of himself,” added Hal Hastings. “He rarely falls into any kind of scrape that he can't climb out of.” “But this is a bad time for him to take the 'Farnum' and cruise away,” objected the owner of the yard. “The 'Hudson' may be here at any hour, you know, and we ought to be ready for orders.” As he spoke, Mr. Farnum scanned the horizon away to the south, out over the sea. “There's a line of smoke, now, and not many miles away,” he announced. “It may, as likely as not, be smoke from the 'Hudson's' pipe.” “Going out with us, sir?” inquired Captain Jack Benson, as Hal took his place at a pair of oars. “Yes,” nodded the owner of the yard, dropping into a seat at the stern of the boat, after which Benson pushed off at the bow. Down on the seashore, on this day just past the middle of October, the air was keen and brisk. There had been frost for several nights past. Sleighing might be looked for in another month. “Cable's gone from this buoy,” declared Captain Jack, as Hal rowed close. “Over to the other one, old fellow.” Here, too, the cable was missing. Evidently the “Farnum” had made a clean get-away. If there had been any accident, it must have taken place after the new submarine boat had slipped away from her moorings. “Humph!” grunted Jack, scanning the sea. “No sign of the boat anywhere. Eph may be anywhere within twenty miles of here.” “Or within twenty feet, either,” grinned Hal, looking down into the waters that were lead-colored under the dull autumn sky. “What are we going to do, Captain?” inquired Jacob Farnum. “There are Grant Andrews and three of his machinists coming down to the water.” “I reckon, sir, we'd better put them aboard the 'Pollard' first, sir,” Benson suggested. Mr. Farnum nodding, the boat was rowed in to the shore and Andrews and his men were put aboard the “Pollard” at the platform deck. Captain Jack Benson unlocking the door to the conning tower, was himself the first to disappear down below. When he came back he carried a line to which was attached a heavy sounding-lead. “It won't take us long to sound the deep spots in this little harbor,” said the young skipper, as he dropped down once more into the bow of the shore boat. “Row about, Hal, over the places where the submarine could go below out of sight.” As Hal rowed, Skipper Jack industriously used the sounding-lead. For twenty minutes nothing resulted from this exploration. Then, all of a sudden, Benson shouted: “Back water, Hal! Easy; rest on your oars. Steady!” Jack Benson raised the lead two or three feet, then let it down again, playing it up and down very much as a cod fisherman uses his line and hook. “I'm hitting something, and it is hardly a rock, either,” declared young Benson. “Pull around about three points to starboard, Hal, then steal barely forward.” Again Benson played see-saw with his sounding-line over the boat's gunwale. “If my lead isn't hitting the 'Farnum,'” declared the young skipper, positively, “then it's the 'Farnum's' ghost. Hold steady, now, Hal.” Immediately afterward, Benson caused the lead fairly to dance a jig on whatever it touched at bottom. “What's the good of that, anyway?” demanded Jacob Farnum. “You don't think I'm doing this just for fun, do you, sir?” asked Captain Jack, with a smile. “No; I know you generally have an object when you do anything unusual,” responded the shipbuilder, good-humoredly. “You know, of course, sir, that noises sound with a good deal of exaggeration when you hear them under water?” “Yes; of course.” “You also know that all three of us have been practicing at telegraphy a good deal during the past few weeks, because every man who follows the sea ought to know how to send and receive wireless messages at need.” “Yes; I know that, Benson.” “Well, sir, I guess that the lead has been hitting the top of the 'Farnum's' hull, and I've been tapping out the signal—” “The signal, 'Come up—rush!'” broke in Hal, with an odd smile. “Right-o,” nodded Jack Benson. “How on earth did you know what the signal was, Hastings?” demanded Mr. Farnum. “Why, sir, I've been sitting so that I could see Jack's arm. I've been reading, from the motions of his right arm, the dots and dashes of the Morse telegraph alphabet.” “You youngsters certainly get me, for the things you think of,” laughed the shipyard's owner. “And the 'Farnum,' or whatever it is, is coming up,” called Captain Jack, suddenly. “I just felt my lead slide down over the top of her hull. Hard-a-starboard, Hal, and row hard,” shouted young Benson, breathlessly. Though Hastings obeyed immediately he was barely an instant too soon. To his dismay, Mr. Farnum saw something dark, unwieldy, rising through the water. It appeared to be coming up fairly under the stern of the shore boat, threatening to overturn the little craft and plunge them all into the icy water. Hal shot just out of the danger zone, though. Then a round little tower bobbed up out of the water. Immediately afterward the upper third of a long, cigar-shaped craft came up into view, water rolling from her dripping sides, which glistened brightly as the sun came out briefly from behind a fall cloud. In the conning tower, through the thick plate glass, the three people in the shore boat made out the carroty-topped head and freckled, good-humored, honest, homely face of Eph Somers. The boat lay on the water, under no headway, drifting slightly with the wind-driven ripples. Then Eph raised the man-hole cover of the top of the conning tower, thrusting out his head to hail them. “Hey, you landsmen, do you know a buoy from an umbrella?” “Do you know the difference between a Sunday-school text and petty larceny?” retorted Jack Benson, sternly. “What do you mean by taking the submarine without leave?” “I've been experimenting—flirting with science,” responded Eph, loftily. “Say, if you landsmen know a buoy from a banana, get down to the bow moorings of this steel mermaid, and I'll pass you the bow cable. It's a heap easier to lead this submarine horse out of the stall, single-handed, than it is to take him back and tie him.” Hal rowed easily to the buoy, while Eph, returning to the steering wheel and the tower controls, ran the “Farnum,” with just bare headway, up to where he could toss the bow cable to those waiting in the boat. A few moments later the stern cable, also, was made fast, in such a way as to allow a moderate swing to the bulky steel craft. “Now, you can take me ashore, if you feel like it,” proposed Eph, standing on the platform deck. “Not quite yet,” returned Skipper Jack, though the small boat lay alongside. “We've got some inspecting to do. But how did you get on board in the first place?” “Why, the night watchman was in the yard for a few minutes, and I got him to put me on board. I figured I could hail somebody else when I was ready to go on shore.” “But what on earth made you do such a thing?” demanded Captain Jack, in a low tone. “It's really more than you had a right to do, Eph, without getting Mr. Farnum's permission.” “Why, I've known you to take the 'Pollard' and try something when Mr. Farnum wasn't about,” retorted Somers, looking surprised. “You never knew me to do it when I could ask permission, although, as captain, I have the right to handle the boat. But that leave doesn't extend to all the rest, Eph. What were you doing down there, anyway?” “Why, I came on board, and left the manhole open for ten minutes,” answered Somers. “Then I found the cabin thermometer standing at 49 degrees. I wondered how much warmth could be gained by going below the surface. I had been down an hour and five minutes when you began to signal with that sledge-hammer—” “Sounding-lead,” Jack corrected him. “Well, it sounded like a sledge-hammer, anyway,” grinned young Somers. “While I was down below I found that the temperature rose four degrees.” “Part of that was likely due to the warmth of your body, and the heat of the breath you gave off,” hinted Benson. “You could have gotten it up to eighty or ninety degrees by turning on the electric heater far enough,” suggested Hal. “I wanted to see whether it would be warmer in the depths; wanted to find out how low I could go and be able to do without heat in winter,” Somers retorted. “I could have told you that, from my reading, without any experiment,” retorted Skipper Jack. “Close your conning tower and go down a little way, and the temperature would gradually rise a few degrees. That's because of the absence of wind and draft. But, if you could go down very, very deep without smashing the boat under the water pressure, you'd find the temperature falling quite a bit.” “Where did you read all that?” inquired Eph, looking both astonished and sheepish. “Here,” replied Jack, going to a small wall book-case, taking down a book and turning several pages before he stopped. “Just my luck,” muttered Eph, disconsolately. “Here I've been dull as ditch-water for an hour, trying to find out something new, and it's all stated in a book printed—ten years ago,” he finished, after rapidly consulting the title-page. Jacob Farnum had been no listener to this conversation. Taking the marine glasses from the conning tower, the shipbuilder was now well forward on the platform deck, scanning what was visible of the steam craft to the southward. At last the yard's owner turned around to say: “I don't believe you young men can have things ship-shape a second too soon. The craft heading this way has a military mast forward. She must be the 'Hudson.' If there's anything to be done, hustle!” Jack and Hal sprang below, to scan their respective departments. Five minutes later Grant Andrews hailed from the “Pollard,” and Eph rowed over in the shore boat to ferry over the machinists. Half an hour later Andrews and his men had put in the few needed touches aboard the newer submarine boat. The sun, meanwhile, had gone down, showing the hull of a naval vessel some four miles off the harbor. Darkness came on quickly, with a clouded sky. As young Benson stepped on deck Grant Andrews followed him. “All finished here, Grant?” queried the yard's owner. “Yes, sir. There's mighty little chance to do anything where Hal Hastings has charge of the machinery.” “That's our gunboat out there, I think,” went on Mr. Farnum, pointing to where a white masthead light and a red port light were visible, about a mile away. “Dunhaven must be on the map, all right, if a strange navigating officer knows how to come so straight to the place,” laughed Jack Benson. “Oh, you trust a United States naval officer to find any place he has sailing orders for,” returned Jacob Farnum. “I wonder if he'll attempt to come into this harbor?” “There's safe anchorage, if he wants to do so,” replied Captain Jack. While Somers was busy putting the foreman and the machinists ashore, Mr. Farnum, Jack and Hal remained on the platform deck, watching the approach of the naval vessel, which was now plainly making for Dunhaven. Suddenly, a broad beam of glaring white light shot over the water, resting across the deck of the “Farnum.” “I guess that fellow knows what he wants to know, now,” muttered Benson, blinking after the strong glare had passed. “There, he has picked up the 'Pollard,' too,” announced Hastings. “Now, that commander must feel sure he has sighted the right place.” “There go the signal lights,” cried Captain Jack, suddenly. “Hal, hustle below and turn on the electric current for the signaling apparatus.” Then Benson watched as, from the yards high up on the gunboat's signaling mast, colored electric lights glowed forth, twinkling briefly in turn. This is the modern method of signaling by sea at night. “He wants to know,” said Benson, to Mr. Farnum, as he turned, “whether there is safe anchorage for a twelve-hundred-ton gunboat of one hundred and ninety-five feet length.” Reaching the inside of the conning tower at a bound, the young skipper rapidly manipulated his own electric signaling control. There was a low mast on the “Farnum's” platform deck, a mast that could be unstepped almost in an instant when going below surface. So Captain Jack's counter-query beamed out in colors through the night: “What's your draught?” “Under present ballast, seventeen-eight,” came the answer from the gunboat's signal mast. “Safe anchorage,” Captain Jack signaled back. “Can you meet us with a pilot?” questioned the on-coming gunboat. “Yes,” Captain Jack responded. “Do so,” came the laconic request. “That's all, Hal,” the young skipper called, through the engine room speaking tube. “Want to row me out and put me aboard the gunboat?” In another jiffy the two young chums had put off in the boat, Hal at the oars, Jack at the tiller ropes. The gunboat was now lying to, some seven hundred yards off the mouth of the little harbor. Hastings bent lustily to the oars, sending the boat over the rocking water until he was within a hundred yards of the steam craft's bridge. “Gun boat ahoy!” roared Hal, between his hands. Then, by a slip of the tongue, and wholly innocent of any intentional offense, he bellowed: “Is that the 'Dad' boat?” “What's that?” came a sharp retort from the gunboat's bridge. “Don't try to be funny, young man!” “Beg your pardon, sir. That was a slip of the tongue,” Hal replied, meekly, as he colored. “Are you the gunboat 'Hudson?'” “No; I'm her commanding officer, young man! Who in blazes are you?” “I'm the goat, it seems,” muttered Hastings, under his breath. But, aloud, he replied: “I have the pilot you requested.” “Then why don't you bring him on board?” came the sharp question. “Did you think I only wanted to look at a pilot?” “All right, sir. Shall I make fast to your starboard side gangway?” Hal called. “In a hurry, young man!” “That's the naval style, I guess,” murmured Jack to his chum. “No fooling in the talk. I wonder if that fellow eats pie? Or is his temper due to coffee?” Answering only with a quiet grin, Hal rowed alongside the starboard side gangway. Jack, waiting, sprang quickly to the steps, ascending, waving his hand to Hal as he went. Young Hastings quickly shoved off, then bent to his oars. “Where's the pilot?” came a stern voice, from the bridge, as Jack Benson's head showed above the starboard rail. “I am the pilot, sir,” Jack replied. “Why, you're a boy.” “Guilty,” Jack responded. “What does this fooling mean? You're not old enough to hold a pilot's license.” By this time Benson was on the deck, immediately under the bridge. A half dozen sailors, forward, were eyeing him curiously. “I have no license, sir,” Jack admitted. “Neither has anyone else at Dunhaven. For that matter, the harbor's a private one, belonging to the shipyard.” “Hasn't Mr. Farnum a man he can send out?” “No one who knows the harbor better than I do, sir.” “Who are you? What are you?” “Jack Benson, sir. Captain of the Pollard submarine boats.” “Why didn't you tell me that before?” The question came sharply, almost raspingly. “Beg your pardon, sir, but you didn't ask me,” Jack replied. “Come up here, Benson,” ordered the lieutenant commander, in a loud voice intended to drown out the subdued titter of some of the sailors forward. Jack ascended to the bridge, to find himself facing a six-footer in his early thirties. There was a younger officer at the far end of the bridge. “Does Mr. Farnum consider you capable of showing us the way into the harbor?” demanded the commanding officer of the “Hudson.” “I think so, sir. He trusts me with his own boats.” “Then you are—” “Benson, Mr. Farnum's captain of the submarine boats.” Lieutenant Commander Mayhew gazed in astonishment for a moment, then held out his hand as he introduced himself, remarking: “I was told that I would find a very young submarine commander here, but—” “You didn't expect to find one quite as young,” Jack finished, smiling. “No; I didn't. Mr. Trahern, I want you to know Captain Jack Benson, of the Pollard submarines.” Ensign Trahern also shook hands with young Benson. “And now,” went on the commander of the “Hudson,” “I think you may as well show us the way into the harbor.” “You'll want to go at little more than headway, sir,” Jack replied. “The harbor is small, though there's enough deep water for you. In parts there are some sand ledges that the tide washes up.” “I can't allow you to pilot us, exactly, but you'll indicate the course to me, won't you, Mr. Benson?” The “mister” was noticeable, now. Naval officers are chary of their bestowal of the title “captain” upon one who does not hold it in the Army or Navy service. At Mr. Mayhew's order the “Hudson” was started slowly forward, the searchlight playing about the entrance to the harbor. “For your best anchorage, sir,” declared Captain Jack, after he had brought the gunboat slowly into the harbor, “you will do well to anchor with that main arc-light dead ahead, that shed over there on your starboard beam, and the front end of the submarine shed about four points off your port bow.” Mr. Mayhew slowly manœuvred his craft, while men stood on the deck below, forward, prepared to heave the bow anchors. “Go four points over to port, Mr. Trahern,” instructed Mr. Mayhew. “Now, back the engines—steady!” Jack Benson opened his mouth wide. Then, as he saw the way the “Hudson” was backing, he suddenly called: “Slow speed ahead, quick, sir!” “You said—” began Mr. Mayhew. Gr-r-r-r! The stern of the gunboat dug its way into a sand ledge, lifting the stern considerably. “Slow speed ahead!” rasped Lieutenant Commander Mayhew, sharply. But the gunboat could not be budged. She was stuck, stern on, fast in the sand-ledge. “Benson!” uttered the lieutenant commander, bitterly, “I congratulate you. You've succeeded in grounding a United States Naval vessel!” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.