The Cruise of the Training Ship; Or, Clif Faraday's Pluck
Date: 2021-08-14T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Adventure stories; Friendship -- Juvenile fiction; Voyages and travels -- Juvenile fiction; Sailors -- Juvenile fiction; Cruelty -- Juvenile fiction; Students -- Juvenile fiction; Youth -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Courage -- Juvenile fiction; Hazing -- Juvenile fiction; United States Naval Academy -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: The Cruise of the Training Ship; Or, Clif Faraday's Pluck

Author: Upton Sinclair

Release date: August 14, 2021 [eBook #66062]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRUISE OF THE TRAINING SHIP; OR, CLIF FARADAY'S PLUCK ***

The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Cruise of the Training Ship, by Upton Sinclair

Note:

Images of the original pages are available through HathiTrust Digital Library. See https://hdl.handle.net/2027/uiug.30112037304059

THE CRUISE OF THE
TRAINING SHIP

OR

CLIF FARADAY’S PLUCK

BY
ENSIGN CLARKE FITCH, U. S. N.
AUTHOR OF
“From Port to Port,” “Clif, the Naval Cadet,” “Bound
for Annapolis,” etc.

PHILADELPHIA
DAVID McKAY, PUBLISHER
610 South Washington Square

Copyright, 1903
By STREET & SMITH
——
The Cruise of the Training Ship

CONTENTS

CHAPTER | PAGE
I.— | Nanny in Trouble | 7
II.— | Clif On a Scout | 15
III.— | Turning the Tables | 26
IV.— | More Hazing | 39
V.— | Nanny Sends a Message | 51
VI.— | The Fight | 60
VII.— | A Hail in the Night | 68
VIII.— | The Mysterious Ship | 80
IX.— | A Fight On the Derelict | 88
X.— | Sail Drill at Sea | 100
XI.— | Talking It Over | 107
XII.— | Judson Receives a Setback | 113
XIII.— | Preparing for the Entertainment | 119
XIV.— | The Minstrel Show | 126
XV.— | The Night Drill | 137
XVI.— | Friends in Adversity | 148
XVII.— | A Welcome Find | 163
XVIII.— | Judson Greene’s Treachery | 175
XIX.— | The Mystery Solved | 190
XX.— | Diving for Rewards | 205
XXI.— | The Conspiracy | 218
XXII.— | And Then Silence! | 226
XXIII.— | “Cutter Ahoy!” | 233
XXIV.— | The Englishman With a “Haw!” | 242
XXV.— | Saving a King | 248
XXVI.— | Audience With a King | 259
XXVII.— | The Broken Tree Branch | 266
XXVIII.— | The Midnight Marauder | 273

The Cruise of the Training Ship.

CHAPTER I. NANNY IN TROUBLE.

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

“Ow-w! Wow-w-w!”

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

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

Thud! Smack!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some were, and some were not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The officer discreetly withdrew, unseen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Clif Faraday?”

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

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

“Go ahead, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II. CLIF ON A SCOUT.

“Clif! I say, Clif! Wake up.”

“What’s the matter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. It’s Nanny.”

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

“It’s Crane and his gang.”

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

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

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

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

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

Clif laughed ominously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rumble! thud!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s search.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was unsnapped.

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

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

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

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

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

Clif listened eagerly for the reply. It was reassuring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was Crane!

CHAPTER III. TURNING THE TABLES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was Toggles!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He! he!” giggled Trolley.

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

“Paint him red?” queried Toggles, delightedly.

“Sure thing.”

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

“Yes; with whiskers.”

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

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

“I don’t think,” muttered Joy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s rather risky,” continued Toggles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lad had completely disappeared.

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

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

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

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

Approaching him, he asked, cautiously:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And they did.

CHAPTER IV. MORE HAZING.

“That isn’t a clew line, you lubber.”

“I—I thought——”

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

“Please, sir, I didn’t mean——”

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

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

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

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

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

“Bluffersville,” prompted Joy.

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

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

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

“Not exactly,” mildly replied Clif.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took Clif in hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a startling interruption.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He ran away, sir.”

“Why?”

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

“Afraid of what?”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s right,” said Greene, audibly.

“Sure thing,” spoke up Spendly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V. NANNY SENDS A MESSAGE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The boy is crazy,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

Turning upon Clif, he added:

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

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

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

The latter pointed aloft.

“He fled to escape punishment, sir.”

“What?”

“He’s in the foretop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sigh of relief went up.

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Clif Faraday.”

“Why does he wish to see him?”

The surgeon shook his head.

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are not fooling me?”

Clif laughed encouragingly.

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

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

A cry of horror came from the spectators.

“He will be killed!”

“Heavens! what a fall!”

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

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

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

“It’s Faraday!”

CHAPTER VI. THE FIGHT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You—you don’t mean——” he gasped.

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

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

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

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

He staggered back, glaring at Clif in stupefied amazement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sharpe barely nodded.

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

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

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

Time was again called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a claspknife, open and ready for use.

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

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

And Blakely’s decisions were always respected.

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

CHAPTER VII. A HAIL IN THE NIGHT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is his name?”

“Clifford Faraday, sir.”

“Humph! was he asleep?”

“I do not think so, sir.”

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

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

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

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

“It’s Faraday again!”

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

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

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

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

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

“I gave the alarm, sir.”

“What for?”

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

The executive officer made a gesture of impatience.

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

“Dreaming, sir?”

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

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

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

“Where is it, then?”

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

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

“He saw the Flying Dutchman, I guess.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hands indicated ten minutes of four.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A mystery?” echoed Nanny, wonderingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII. THE MYSTERIOUS SHIP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So did I,” chimed in little Nanny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The captain laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This much was made out when the shrill notes of the boatswain’s whistle calling away the whaleboat echoed through the practice ship. Clif was disconsolate. His boat was the gig. He stood in the gangway watching the work of lowering the narrow, double-ended craft, wishing with all his heart and soul that he was one of the lucky crew.

Suddenly the coxswain poked his head above the hammock netting and called out that he was a man short.

The lieutenant who had been selected to go, glanced about the deck inquiringly. His eyes fell upon Clif, and that youth sprang forward, hopped nimbly up the main shrouds, and was descending the boatfalls before the officer could make up his mind to select him. A few moments later the whaleboat was clear of the Monongahela, and being propelled across the heaving sea by her sturdy crew.

Once, while the boat was swung around by a wave, Clif sighted the strange ship. Something moving near the bow caught his eye, and he gave a start and almost dropped his oar.

“Steady, there! What is the matter with you?” came sternly from the lieutenant.

Clif said nothing, but his hands trembled as they clasped the oar again. His brain was in a whirl. He longed to rub his eyes to see if he was still awake, or if that which he had just seen or fancied he had seen, was real or a phantom.

The cadet behind him said as he leaned forward:

“Did you sight anything? You look white and scared.”

Clif compressed his lips, and maintained an uncompromising silence. He was not certain of his own senses, and he had no desire to expose himself to ridicule.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX. THE FIGHT ON THE DERELICT.

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

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

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

All this was witnessed by the Monongahela’s crew, and excitement reigned on board.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Splash!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X. SAIL DRILL AT SEA.

“I don’t believe a word of it!”

“It’s true, nevertheless, Payne.”

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

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

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

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

“What’s up?” he asked.

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

“That’s straight, Ferguson.”

“Wh-what!”

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

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

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

“He’s too fresh.”

“That’s what.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It was a splendid act,” commented Blakely.

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

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

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

Payne and Ferguson reddened slightly.

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

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

“I’d like to punch his head.”

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

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

“All-l hands reef topsails!”

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

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

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

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

All was ready.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lay out!”

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

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

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

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

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

And eat he does, rest assured of that.

CHAPTER XI. TALKING IT OVER.

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

“Did they push you along?”

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

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

“No. It——”

“Measles?”

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

The group of plebes gathered about the speaker, laughed.

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

And the captain had actually consented.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Standing near the railing were Judson Greene and Chris Spendly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clif laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XII. JUDSON RECEIVES A SETBACK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Humph! I was too scared.”

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

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

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

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

Ferguson reddened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, it’s a plebe!” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blakely made a gesture of disgust.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well?” asked Ferguson, espying him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIII. PREPARING FOR THE ENTERTAINMENT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIV. THE MINSTREL SHOW.

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

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

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

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

Whereat Clif chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“James Owen O’Connor,” grinned Wallace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sat down, looking red and indignant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sat down abruptly and laughed vacantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Brookes turned to the executive officer, and said:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XV. THE NIGHT DRILL.

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

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

Suddenly, as he neared the ladder leading to the quarter-deck, he almost collided with a dark figure.

There was a brief interchange of words, then the lieutenant leaned over the railing and called, softly:

“Messenger boy!”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

A lad in a sailor’s uniform emerged from the gloom, and knuckled his forehead with one hand.

The lieutenant gave him a whispered order, and the messenger hastily descended the ladder and disappeared forward. A few moments later the oppressive stillness of the night gave way with startling abruptness to a most prodigious clatter.

R-r-rat-a-tat! R-r-rat-a-tat!

The sharp roll of the drum awoke the echoes of the old frigate, sending an infernal din of noise through decks and rigging and hull. It was caught up and hurled about from sail to sail; it burst upon the ears of the watch below, sending men from their hammocks in alarm. And it changed the scene from one of peaceful quiet into a pandemonium of hurrying figures and excited voices.

“Silence fore and aft!” came the stern command from the bridge. There were three figures there now. And one was the captain.

The noise ceased as if by magic. Several lights flashed fore and aft, and revealed in the faint light were a number of grim black cannon, each surrounded by motionless sailors, every group being as rigid as the iron itself.

An officer, half clad, but girdled with belt and sword scabbard, leaves one of the groups and hurries to the space in front of the bridge. His sword flashes as he salutes.

“First division ready, sir.”

The words came crisp and sharp. He had scarcely finished when another officer hastens up and makes a similar report, then another and another.

This scene just described, which to an inexperienced eye would have seemed strange and warlike, was a drill, pure and simple.

It was general quarters—a ceremony where the ship is ready to fight, when the crew is ready to work the guns, and battle to the death with the foes of their country. It was a night alarm, too, entirely unexpected by the crew, and therefore a fine practical test of the resources of the frigate in moments of hasty peril and attack.

The captain smiled grimly as he glanced at his watch by the light of the hand lantern. Turning to the first lieutenant, he said, in a low voice:

“Fair time, pretty fair. Ship ready for action in seven minutes. Could be better, though,” was the reply. Then the officer added, questioningly:

“Shall I order retreat from quarters, sir?”

Captain Brookes gave a quick glance into the darkness enshrouding the frigate, and replied:

“No. It’s a good night for further drill. We’ll try ‘abandon ship.’”

“Man the boats only, sir?”

“No; lower them. The sea is rather quiet. It might be a good idea to send the boats out half a mile. It will give the cadets a taste of actual experience.”

Lieutenant Watson, the executive officer of the Monongahela, was too well trained to offer an objection, or even advice, but he glanced askance at the black wall surrounding them, as he called out:

“Bugler, sound abandon ship.”

There was a quick, lively blast of a bugle, then the men and cadets melted away from their stations and swarmed about the boats secured in the davits.

The frigate was hove to, and when her way was checked the small boats were lowered and brought alongside the sea gangway.

It was ticklish work descending into the frail crafts as they pitched and rolled under the lee of the towering hull, but the various crews were embarked without mishap.

“Pull away to sea, and await signal to return,” bawled the executive officer from the bridge.

“Ay, ay, sir,” came faintly through the darkness.

“Officers of boats will examine stores and equipments,” was the next order. “Also ascertain proficiency of crews.”

Again came the obedient replies, then the captain, first lieutenant and the men kept on board as a precaution, settled down to wait.

“We will give them ten minutes,” said the former, presently. “They can’t pull far in that time. Nothing like actual experience to——”

He paused abruptly and glanced out to windward. A chill blast had suddenly come from that direction. The old Monongahela gave an uneasy roll.

“That means wind and plenty of it, sir,” exclaimed Lieutenant Watson. “Shall I——”

“Hoist the recall at once,” broke in Captain Brookes.

A moment later a cluster of lights swung aloft from the main truck of the frigate.

And leaning out over the lee railing of the bridge were the two officers, both watching for answering signals, but neither confessing to the other the anxiety caused by that threatening puff of wind.

On vessels of war each separate boat, from the sailing launch to the dingy, has its own crew, and coxswain. In certain drills and ceremonies, such as abandon ship, every man on board ship is ticketed to a certain boat. To that craft he promptly repairs when the signal is given. Constant practice makes every member of the crew familiar with his duties, and drill, or the real action, passes without confusion.

The sailing launch of the Monongahela was a large seaworthy boat, capable of safely carrying twenty men. When it was rowed away from the frigate on this dark night it contained that number in its crew.

The officer in charge was a lieutenant, and he had under his command five seamen, a coxswain and thirteen cadets.

Among the latter were Clif, Trolley and Joy.

“I say, Trolley, isn’t this nice work for Christians to be laboring at?” asked Joy. “Didn’t I tell you that war causes all the trouble in this world? Here we are out in the bosom of the mighty deep, working away like a lot of slaves when we might be comfortable starving at home. I tell you peace is the thing.”

The Japanese youth laughed softly.

“You fool me one time, my Joy,” he replied. “I think when I first know you that you great boy for peace. But——”

He chuckled, and added, with evident zest:

“You no like to eat more than you like fight. You whip three upper class boys, and not half try. When Clif Faraday say we do more things to third class fellows you roll your eyes and you lick your chop. You what American boys call one big bluff.”

The object of this arraignment laughed and gave an added spurt with his long ashen oar. The launch pitched and rolled in the seas, and steadily forced its way through the blackness.

Far astern twinkled the lights of the practice ship, seeming no larger than star points in the distance.

Overhead the darkness increased, the expanse of sea being banked in by gathering clouds. A breeze, cool and moist with a salty dampness, sprang up, giving a fleeting spray to the edge of the waves.

It was a strange experience to the young naval cadets, this tossing about in an open boat upon a heaving sea whose broad bosom sparkled and glowed with the sheen of phosphorescent lights.

There was something fascinating in it all, something so peculiarly attractive that all wished the signal of recall would be long in coming.

They had been aroused from slumber, the majority of them, and had plunged from the peacefulness of their hammocks into the midst of bustle and wild excitement. They had worked the guns in imitation of battle attack, then, as a fitting climax to all, here they were launched away from the ship with only a few frail planks between them and the remorseless ocean.

There was no thought of danger in their minds, however. It was all play—a jolly good game in which the boats, and the sea, and the freshening wind were the toys.

So they laid to the oars and forced the boats over the waves farther and still farther from the ship. And the breeze came in stronger puffs and the clouds gathered overhead in the darkness, and at last there came a time when the experienced officers in charge of the little flotilla received the same sudden shock as did Captain Brookes and his first lieutenant.

The shock was the icy blast. It sent the light crafts rolling, and called forth muttered exclamations of consternation from those who were experienced in the treachery of old ocean.

Then came the recall. A cluster of lanterns swung aloft bidding the boats return. They had barely started on the back track when a deep, sullen boom echoed across the water.

“By George! it’s time,” muttered the lieutenant in charge of the sailing launch. “The old man sees his mistake and he’s hurrying us up.” He added, aloud:

“Pull away, men. Bend to it. That’s the recall gun.”

“We know that all right,” said Clif to his seatmate. “It’s the recall gun, and it is not a minute too soon.”

Twelve oars dipped and rose in steady cadence, the dripping blades flashing with phosphorescent fire. Twelve sturdy backs were bent and twelve pairs of arms labored lustily, sending the launch from wave crest to wave crest like a thing of life.

Twinkling here and there were the lanterns of other boats, but the launch’s light had blown out.

The blackness of the night was appalling. It rested upon the water like a thick blanket. The men in the boats could hardly see the backs of those in front of them. The coxswains faced an impenetrable wall.

“Pull away!” again called out the lieutenant of the launch. “See if you can’t get more speed out of her, boys.”

He spoke coaxingly, trying to hide even from himself his intense anxiety.

His words were not needed. The launch’s crew understood the peril as well as he. One old sailor exclaimed to his mates:

“It’s the ship in five minutes or Davy Jones’ locker forever, boys. There’ll be a living gale down on us in a jiffy. If ye love life break your backs.”

A fresh spurt—made against an increasing sea—followed this admonition. One of the oars cracked ominously and it was speedily cast aside. There were spare ones, and the progress of the boat suffered little.

Clif, Joy and Trolley labored like heroes. They were inexperienced in the ways of the weather, but they realized that their position was one of great danger. All three were cool, however.

“It make good incident for book I am going to write on navy,” said the Japanese youth. “I like this. It plenty fun.”

“You would laugh in a cyclone or dance in a burning crater,” remarked Joy, with a grim chuckle. “If all Japs are as brave as——”

“Back oars!” suddenly interrupted the lieutenant. “Back for your——”

Crash!

High above the whistling of the wind came the grinding of shattered timbers and the startled cries of a score of excited men. Then came a series of quick splashes, more shouts, and finally one long appealing cry for help.

CHAPTER XVI. FRIENDS IN ADVERSITY.

During his brief career as a cadet at the United States Naval Academy, Clif had not been placed in many very startling and dangerous situations, but he was a youth of natural coolness of character, and one quick to act in cases of emergency.

In the present situation all his coolness was needed.

When the sudden and entirely unexpected crash came, Clif and the other members of the crew were bending all their energies forward, forcing the launch back to the practice ship.

With head bent low and arms tugging at the oar he worked away, knowing full well that their very lives depended upon their reaching the Monongahela before the sudden gale increased.

Clif heard Joy and Trolley talking, then came the lieutenant’s fierce interruption, and then chaos seemed to come, and overwhelm boat and crew in one mighty crash.

The lieutenant’s warning cry came too late for preparation. Clif felt himself thrown headlong from his seat upon the man in front. There was a wild scramble, then the waters of the ocean rolled up and engulfed all.

When Clif regained the surface he at once instinctively struck out. In no general direction, but with a natural desire to keep afloat.

He heard cries about him, and a splashing and floundering as if a score of men were making a desperate fight for their lives. And mixed in with the hubbub was the keen whistling of the growing gale.

Suddenly the lad came in contact with some yielding body. He heard a gasp and a gurgle, then two arms were thrown about his neck and down went his head beneath the surface.

It is not in the duty of man to drown without making an effort for life. Neither should one go down at the frantic assault of another until all means of aiding both have been exhausted.

Clif instantly realized that he was in the clutches of one whom peril had rendered frantic. He also knew that he must release himself right speedily if he expected to save himself.

Calling all his power into play, he threw off the strangling arms, at the same time gasping hoarsely:

“Strike out, man. Do something for yourself.”

He received no answer. The fellow faded away in the blackness, leaving Clif to swim unencumbered. Luckily, the lad was at home in the water, else he would have found sore trouble in keeping above the buffeting waves.

He struggled on, striving his best to see aught of hope in the prospect. The wind swept the crests of the seas into a thousand stinging lances. The roar of the increasing storm sounded like a mocking chorus of demons. Occasional cries for help echoed above the brawling of the elements.

Suddenly the lights on the practice ship, which Clif had kept before his eyes as well as he could, began to grow dim.

“Surely they will not leave us to perish miserably,” groaned the lad. “They will stand by until some of the boats report.”

Wild with fear he struck out savagely, and in the act drove plump against some hard object.

The sudden shock sent him under the surface once more. When he emerged gasping and half stunned, he heard the sound of a familiar voice nearby in the darkness.

“Come up higher, Trolley, the boat can stand it. That’s it; give me your hand. Steady, steady, ah-h!”

“It’s Joy, and he has found help,” hopefully muttered Clif.

He swam in the direction whence the words had come, and speedily reached what proved to be the launch, floating capsized at the mercy of the waves.

Upon the upturned bottom were two dark smudges just visible against the black background of the night.

Grasping the end of the keel, Clif drew himself up and sat panting upon the bottom planks.

“Who is that?” called out Joy.

“It’s what is left of me,” replied Clif.

“Hurray, it’s Faraday!” shouted the Japanese youth. “Hurray, Clif, me glad you saved. Shake!”

“This is a dreadful business,” exclaimed Faraday, as he wrung the proffered hand. “Seen anything of the other fellows?”

“Not a sign,” replied Joy. “We have heard lots of cries, but we are the only ones who have reached this launch.”

“What was the trouble? A collision?”

“Yes. I think we ran into one of the cutters. Whew! how this blamed thing does roll.”

It required all the efforts of the three to retain their position upon the tossing launch. The sweep of the waves sent a perfect deluge of water over them at times, and they were compelled to cling with tooth and nail.

The force of the wind continued unabated, but it was evident from the suddenness of its coming and its very fierceness that it would not last.

The lights of the Monongahela were no longer visible. Immediately after gaining the comparative safety of the capsized launch, Clif eagerly scanned the horizon.

“I am afraid she has been driven off before the gale, fellows,” he said, anxiously.

“It certainly looks that way,” agreed Joy. “I guess we can say good-by to the old Monongahela.”

“It say good-by to us,” chimed in Trolley. “It go away; we no want to.”

He spoke lightly, but he fully understood the extreme gravity of the situation. All three realized that their lives were in deadly peril.

With only the frail planks of an overturned boat between them and the depths of the angry sea, it was plainly evident that little hope remained.

And what of the others who had left the practice ship?

Clif shuddered and his eyes moistened as he recalled the names of his shipmates. Some there were who had not been friendly to him. Many had sworn undying vengeance because he had led the plebes on more than one successful resistance to the hazing of the upper classes. In that very launch Judson Greene had pulled an oar.

All animosity was forgotten now, however; in the presence of such an awful tragedy only heartfelt sympathy and regret could live.

“Haven’t you seen anything of the others?” he asked again.

“Nary sign,” replied Joy, gloomily.

“I guess they gone down,” muttered Trolley. “Poor boys! Me very sorry.”

A realization of their own situation was suddenly brought home to them. A curling wave, higher than the rest, abruptly broke over the launch with such force that all three lads were hurled bodily from the keel.

Clif was thrown a dozen feet away from the boat, and when he regained the surface after the violent plunge he found himself buffeted about in a smother of foam.

He struck out blindly, and at the same time called lustily for his companions. An answering cry came at once.

“Clif! Clif! where are you?”

Guided by the voice, he reached the boat once more, but only after a most desperate struggle.

He felt himself clutched by the collar and dragged against the gunwale. Then he saw to his infinite surprise that the sailing launch had righted.

“All present and accounted for, and better off than before.”

These cheery words came from Clif as he scrambled into the boat and saw that both Joy and Trolley were there.

“Yes, but if we want to continue to be present we’d better commence to bail,” replied the former.

Trolley felt about under the submerged seats and brought up a bailer which had been wedged in one corner. With this he set industriously to work.

Clif and Joy did what they could to help, and before long the water in the launch was materially decreased. The boys labored with lighter hearts. Hope was not so far distant after all.

In this world many things are measured by circumstances. To the drowning man a straw is worth clutching for.

After ten minutes of incessant labor Clif straightened up and announced what was patent to his companions.

“Only a foot of water left, fellows. We can stand that for a time.”

“If we only had oars or something to keep the blessed craft before the wind we’d stand a show of living until morning,” said Joy.

“We look for things,” announced the Japanese youth, suiting the action to the words.

Clif continued bailing as a heavy wave had thrown more water over the side. Joy and Trolley started to search the boat forward.

There were speedy results. An eager cry came from Joy, and he called back:

“Here’s a find, Clif. The boat’s mast and sails are still fastened to the seats where they were before she capsized. Hurrah! We can do something now.”

Clif ceased bailing in a jiffy and scrambled forward. He found his companions tugging away at a long, shapeless mass, which resolved itself into a mast and a damp, soggy leg-o’-mutton sail.

“This is great,” he exclaimed, exultantly. “It means that we can manage to keep afloat and make a little headway, anyway. It can’t be far to the coast of Portugal, and if the old Monongahela don’t turn up we’ll take a cruise of our own.”

“We’ve got to have rudder,” said the ever practical Trolley. “Sail no good without rudder.”

“Sure thing,” replied Joy. “Don’t worry, we’ll get one all right. There’s a spare oar wrapped up with this sail.”

He had made the welcome discovery while unfolding the canvas.

The three castaways set to work without delay, and after half an hour’s hard labor, during which they were compelled to stop and bail a dozen times, they finally had the mast stepped, and a closereefed sail spread.

By degrees the launch worked around until it at last fell off before the wind. It was a change from the constant, dangerous rolling in the trough of the sea, but the pitching caused by the enormous waves was anything but pleasant.

The three lads took turns at steering. The solitary oar found with the sail answered the purpose well enough.

The night dragged slowly. As time passed, however, it became apparent that the gale was abating. The sea still ran high, but the wind lessened, until at last, just before dawn, it died down to an ordinary breeze.

And how the miserable, water-soaked, poor castaways waited for the first gray streaks of the coming day!

Light would mean much for them. It would reveal either the welcome outlines of the practice ship, or a dreary expanse of desolate ocean. It would tell at once whether they were destined to find hope or be condemned to an uncertain fate.

Small wonder then, that Clif and Joy and Trolley stood up and watched and watched as the first faint rays of the sun drew the expanse of ocean from its pall of darkness.

Trolley was the first to make a discovery. Grasping the swaying mast with one hand, he leaned far out and pointed a shaking finger to an almost shapeless object just visible on the port beam.

A cry in a strange tongue—his own language—came from his lips, then he added, excitedly:

“Look! It ship or something. Look there, quick!”

“It is not a ship,” replied Clif, slowly. “It seems to be a capsized hull or something. Perhaps it is a dead whale.”

There was bitter disappointment in his voice.

“It no whale,” insisted the Jap. “It too big. I think it as you say, a turned over ship. Maybe——”

“I say, there’s something floating over there,” hastily interrupted Joy.

He indicated a spot some distance off the port quarter. It was merely a speck tossing about at the mercy of the waves.

Clif watched it long and earnestly, then he said, with more excitement than he had yet shown:

“Do you know, I believe it is a body tied to a bit of wreckage.”

“Let’s investigate. Perhaps the person may be still alive, if it is a person.”

Clif sprang to the stem and grasped the steering oar, which had been abandoned with the coming of daylight. Joy and Trolley handled the sail, and the launch was soon lumbering along on the opposite tack.

The sea was subsiding with each passing moment. The breeze was just strong enough to allow of the free handling of the boat. In the east the sun was climbing into a sky almost cloudless. It promised to be a perfect day.

Under other circumstances the cadets would have felt light-hearted and happy. But the memory of the recent night and its tragedy, and of their present desperate situation attuned no merry song for them.

As they approached the object floating at the mercy of the waves, they became more and more excited. Finally Trolley sprang up with a shout.

“It two bodies, and they tied to spar,” he cried. “They no dead. I see one move.”

As if to prove the truth of his words, one of the objects feebly waved an arm.

A faint shout came across the water.

“Help! Help!”

Clif glanced at Joy in amazement.

“That voice is familiar,” he exclaimed. “Can it be——”

“It is Judson Greene,” hastily interrupted the lanky lad. “He was in the launch with us last night.”

“I am heartily glad he is saved,” said Clif, sincerely. “Poor fellow, what a terrible time he must have had last night.”

“No worse than us,” muttered Trolley. “He no good anyway. Why he saved instead of good man?”

“Trolley never forgives an enemy,” said Joy. “He has it in for Judson Greene. And I don’t blame him, either. The fellow is a cad of the first water, and very dirty water at that.”

“We can’t bear animosity under present circumstances,” replied Clif. “I don’t like the fellow any more than you do. He’s tried to injure me in a thousand ways, but I am willing to forget it.”

The Jap and Joy exchanged glances, and the latter said, softly:

“That’s Clif all over. He’s as generous as he is brave and good, bless his old heart!”

The launch crept nearer and nearer to the strange bit of flotsam. The body of the other castaway was presently brought into view; then, as the sailboat swept alongside, a simultaneous cry of joy came from the trio:

“It’s Nanny!”

The other boy had fallen back, evidently from sheer exhaustion. He half rose again, and cried wildly:

“Help me into the boat, Faraday. Please hurry; I’m nearly dead. Quick!”

“The same old Judson,” muttered Joy. “Always thinking of himself. From the looks of things, he’s not half as bad as Nanny. The poor youngster is wounded. There’s blood all over his face and head.”

“Keep up your spirits,” cheerily called out Clif. “We’ll have you with us in a jiffy. Stand by, fellows. Steady! that’s it. Now, Judson, give us a hand with Nanny.”

But Greene cast off the rope binding him to the spar—evidently a fragment of some wrecked mast—and unceremoniously scrambled over the launch’s gunwale.

“Thank God!” he gasped, sinking into the bottom. “I thought I’d never see daylight again.”

“Still the same old Judson,” muttered Joy again, assisting Clif and Trolley to transfer Nanny’s insensible form to the launch.

When it was finally accomplished, the little cadet lay like one dead.

Clif, by a hasty examination, found that his heart was still beating, however. He applied water to the poor bruised face, and tried every means in his power to revive the lad. He worked with infinite tenderness, as he had great sympathy and affection for little Nanny.

At last the boy gasped and opened his eyes. He was still dazed, and he stared at those about him in a strangely terrified manner.

There was fear in his eyes and his actions—a deadly and unexplainable fear. Placing his arms before his face as if warding off a blow, he moaned:

“Please don’t throw me off, Judson. I’ll only hold to the edge. Don’t—don’t! Have mercy! I—I—don’t want to die. Mercy! mercy!”

CHAPTER XVII. A WELCOME FIND.

“Judson Greene, what is the meaning of this?”

Stern and accusing Clif faced the boy cowering at the bottom of the launch. Judson’s face was white and he showed every evidence of guilt.

“What do you mean?” he stammered. “I don’t know what the little fool is talking about.”

“You tell lie,” broke in Trolley, hotly. “You try do something to that boy. You beat him.”

“Worse than that,” added Joy, equally angry. “Look at the poor kid’s face. I’ll bet anything Greene tried to throw him off the spar to make more room for his own worthless carcass.”

Judson maintained a sullen silence. Clif fell to soothing Nanny and soon had him more composed.

When the youngster at last realized the truth, and saw that he was surrounded by friends, and one of those friends Clif Faraday, he cried for very joy.

“Oh, Clif, I can’t believe it’s true,” he sobbed. “It must be a dream, and I will wake up and—and——”

“And you will find that it’s the finest dream you ever had, youngster,” laughed Clif, cheerily. “You are all right, Nanny,” he added. “You haven’t gone to Davy Jones’ locker yet. But tell us how you happened to get on that spar, you and Greene.”

Nanny glanced at Judson and shuddered. The latter slyly threatened him with his clinched right fist, but the action did not escape Faraday’s eye.

Pouncing upon Greene he grasped him by the collar and jerked him to his feet. Then forcing him against the gunwale he cried, savagely:

“If I see you do that again I’ll heave you overboard, you miserable scamp. You have been ill treating Nanny and I’ll have the truth of it.”

“Pitch him to the sharks,” exclaimed Joy, also laying violent hands upon the shrinking lad.

Judson was badly frightened.

“I—I—didn’t do anything to him, Faraday,” he cried, struggling to free himself.

“Yes, you did, too,” spoke up Nanny. “When I tried to get on that spar last night, you struck and kicked me in the face, and did your best to make me let go. And you only stopped because you fell into the water. Then I helped you out.”

“We throw him overboard for that,” exclaimed Trolley, fiercely. “He no right to live.”

He advanced upon Judson so menacingly that the fellow fairly bellowed for help.

“I’ll do anything if you spare my life,” he moaned. “Oh, Faraday, don’t kill me. I’ll be your servant and——”

“Shut up,” roughly interrupted Clif. “We can’t execute you, you fool. This is no time or place for heroics. None of us may live another day.”

Judson crept whimpering to the bow of the launch and lay there huddled in a heap.

Clif glanced curiously at the fragment of spar, which was still bobbing and tossing alongside.

“It’s not part of the Monongahela,” he said. “It’s from some wrecked merchantman. What a lucky thing it happened along as it did.”

“That’s true,” agreed Nanny, earnestly. “When the collision happened I thought I was a goner. I floundered about and was almost drowned when I bumped against that spar.”

“There is one queer thing about it,” said Joy, reflectively. “How is it we came across it when we have been sailing before a gale for several hours?”

“There’s an explanation for that, chum,” replied Clif. “The wind shifted and we followed it. I remember distinctly having to put the launch almost about last night.”

“We go now and see if that thing is capsized ship or dead whale,” spoke up Trolley, pointing to where the first object sighted by the boys was still pitching sluggishly upon the long swell.

“It will not be much help to us, but we might as well sail over and see what it is,” consented Clif, grasping the steering oar. “Shake the reefs out and set all canvas. Judson, do something for your passage. Haul taut that forward stay.”

While the others were at work Clif stood up in the stern of the launch and made a careful survey of the horizon.

The sun was now fairly on its way toward the zenith, and the whole expanse of ocean was bathed in a flood of light. Overhead a cloudless sky spread from horizon to horizon in one glorious canopy of blue.

It was all very beautiful, but the lad turned away with a sigh. He instinctively felt that the others looked up to him as a leader, and the responsibility weighed heavily upon him.

That the practice ship had been driven to a considerable distance by the gale was evident. That Captain Brookes would return and institute a thorough search for the lost boat was equally evident. But what hope was there that the launch—a microscopical dot on the infinite ocean—would be found?

And if the Monongahela did not turn up, what then?

There was not an ounce of food in the boat nor a drop of fresh water. The stores with which all man-of-war crafts are supplied, had been lost during the collision.

Clif looked toward the bow. It was shattered in the upper part and the timbers were slightly strained. The launch was fairly seaworthy still, but could it survive another gale?

Clif’s face was very grave as he turned his attention inboard again. The sail was set and everything ready for proceeding onward. A course was shaped for the distant object.

Clif glanced listlessly at it. He felt assured that it would prove to be either a capsized hull—a grim relic of some ocean tragedy—or a dead whale.

“We won’t lose much time in investigating,” he said to Trolley, who had come aft. “If it turns out to be what we expect, we’ll make tracks for the coast of Portugal.”

Half an hour later they were within fair sight of the object. As they neared it the five boys began to show signs of surprise and eager curiosity.

“Surely that isn’t the bottom of a ship,” said Joy.

“And him no whale, either,” chimed in Trolley.

“What’s that thing sticking up a little aft of midships?” queried Nanny, excitedly.

“By gum, it looks like a broken smokestack or funnel.”

“The thing is iron or steel,” cried Judson, crawling aft. “See how the sides glisten.”

Clif said nothing, but the expression upon his handsome face indicated his lively interest. Carefully handling the steering oar he brought the launch around within a dozen yards of the tossing object.

And then a simultaneous cry of amazement burst from the cadets.

“Great Scott!” added Clif. “It’s a torpedo boat and it has been abandoned at sea!”

To Clif this remarkable discovery was welcome indeed.

He saw at once that the craft must be seaworthy, else it would not have survived the gale. It was far better than the open sailing launch, and a transfer to its comparatively roomy interior would certainly be appreciated.

Then again, there might be food and water on board, and the lack of those necessary articles was a subject of much anxiety to the youthful leader.

“Stand by to grasp that ringbolt, Joy,” he called out from his position at the steering oar.

The cadet he addressed leaned out from the bow of the launch in readiness to obey the order.

The other occupants busied themselves in lowering the sail and in assisting Joy to bring the boat alongside the strange derelict.

As the launch slipped alongside the torpedo boat, Joy cleverly caught the ringbolt and thrust the end of the painter through it. The sail was lowered, then all hands scrambled up the sloping side of the craft.

The iron surface was rusty and tarnished by wind and weather, but a bright spot of paint here and there gave evidence that the derelict could not have been long abandoned.

The deck sounded hollow under the footsteps of the boys, and the water lapped against the cylindrical hull with a strange weird sound not altogether pleasant.

The little door leading into the forward conning tower was tightly closed, as was also that giving entrance to the after tower.

At intervals along the deck were hatches all hermetically sealed. Clif and his companions were puzzled.

“I don’t understand this,” murmured the former. “If the crew was compelled to leave, why did they close all the doors and hatches?”

“There’s some mystery about it,” said Joy, shaking his head doubtfully.

“Maybe crew all dead below,” suggested Trolley.

“Ow-w! Let’s go back to the launch!” cried Nanny, eying the conning tower apprehensively. “I don’t want to be where there are lots of dead men.”

“Nonsense! it wouldn’t make any difference if the craft was loaded with them,” replied Clif. “We can throw them overboard, can’t we? Now that the Monongahela has apparently abandoned us to our fate”—he glanced at the distant horizon—“we’ve got to make the best of things. We must find something to eat——”

Trolley rubbed his stomach yearningly.

“And some water——”

Judson wet his parched lips with his tongue.

“And also a better and more seaworthy craft than the launch.”

“But we can sail the launch,” remarked Joy.

“That’s true enough, and we may do it after all, but now we must see about food and water.”

Clif advanced to the forward conning tower and tried the door. It resisted his efforts. He examined the edge carefully, and ran his finger along the crack.

“I don’t believe it is locked inside,” he concluded. “Perhaps it has been slammed violently and jammed. I’ll just——”

He sprang back in alarm. A hollow moaning cry came from forward. It ended abruptly in a gurgle like that of a man in his last moments.

Little Nanny gave a gasp and moved toward the sailing launch, which was still fastened alongside.

“Wh-wh-what was that?” he chattered.

“Somebody is down there,” exclaimed Joy, “and he needs help.”

“We go see,” said Trolley, quietly. “We break open door.”

“We’ll make a few inquiries first,” said Clif.

Stamping upon the steel deck, he bawled lustily:

“Below there! Ahoy the ’tween decks!”

The quintet waited expectantly, but the stillness remained unbroken. Clif repeated the hail, and Joy pounded the deck with the oar from the launch, but with the same result.

“I guess we imagined it,” said Nanny, evidently relieved. “It wasn’t—wow!”

He ended with a cry of dismay. The moan again sounded forward, ending, as before, with the unearthly gurgle.

Trolley darted past the conning tower, and, throwing himself flat upon the sloping deck, leaned out over the bow. He had hardly taken his position when the torpedo boat pitched sullenly into the trough of the sea, and the uncanny noise was repeated.

The Japanese youth returned aft with a grin upon his face.

“We plenty fools,” he said. “That moan no come from man, it caused by waves under bow. The cutwater is bent, and sea slap into it. Hurray!”

“That’s a jolly sell on us,” laughed Clif. “We are a lot of old women, getting scared at the slightest noise. Come on; give me a hand with this door. We can’t wait on deck all day. I want to see if there are any stores on board. Nanny, are you hungry?”

The little cadet hastened to answer in the affirmative.

“Then I’ll get you to crawl down one of those broken funnels if we can’t get in this way,” continued Clif, winking at Joy.

“Oo! I wish we were on the Monongahela,” complained Nanny, not at all pleased at the prospect. “I don’t want to go down the funnel.”

“You are a big baby,” sneered Judson Greene.

“We may give you a chance to prove that you are full-grown,” said Clif, coldly. “You are not too large for the funnel.”

“I am not afraid,” retorted Judson, walking aft.

A combined onslaught was made on the conning tower door. At first it resisted the efforts of the four boys, but finally, after Trolley had pounded the edges with the oar handle, it yielded slightly.

“All together now,” said Clif, bracing his feet against the curved side of the conning tower. “One! two—three, pull!”

The four cadets tugged sharply on the rope that had been passed through the handle, there was a complaining of strained hinges, then the door flew back with a crash.

And out through the opening tumbled the body of a man, half-clothed and ghastly in death!

CHAPTER XVIII. JUDSON GREENE’S TREACHERY.

For one moment the five cadets stared in horror at the body, then with one accord they broke for the launch. As they did so the torpedo boat lurched abruptly to one side, tossed by a wave, and the dead man slid gently after them.

As it rolled over on reaching the curve it was brought up against Judson’s legs. With a shriek of horror the lad sprang into the sea.

The splash was almost instantly followed by a second. The dead man had rolled after him.

Clif quickly regained his senses.

“Throw us a rope!” he cried, hurriedly, then over he went in a neat dive that placed him within reach of Judson as he bobbed into sight.

The two were speedily hauled on board. Judson cowered on deck, completely unstrung. Clif was still pale, but he had recovered his usual composure.

“Whew! excuse me,” he said, wringing the water from his blouse. “I don’t want any more scares like that. My teeth are chattering yet. Can you see any—anything of it, Trolley?”

The Japanese youth turned back from where he had been gazing into the sea. His swarthy face was a shade lighter, and he shook as if from cold.

“I no see him, Clif,” he replied. “And I no want to any more. By Jim! I no think him in there.”

“It has gone down,” reported Joy, grimly.

“Maybe there are more inside,” wailed Nanny. “Let’s go back to the launch. I’d rather starve than stay on this spooky old thing.”

Clif laughed in his old, merry way.

“We are children, every one of us,” he said, lightly. “Fancy being afraid of a dead man. Come; we’ll resume our investigating.”

“You don’t g-g-get me to leave th-this deck,” chattered Judson. “I know when I—I have had enough.”

He moved toward the launch as he spoke.

“Where are you going?” asked Clif.

“Into the boat.”

“If you do, I’ll cut the painter and let you slide,” continued Faraday. “What a coward you are!”

Judson grumbled something, but he remained on board the torpedo boat. He knew that Clif would keep his word.

“We’ll tackle it again, fellows,” announced that youth, cheerily. “If there are any more dead men below we will give them a decent sea burial.”

“Nanny,” he added, “suppose you inspect the after part while we——”

“Not on your life,” hastily interrupted the little lad. “I go where you do.”

“Well, come ahead, then,” laughed Clif, leading the way to the open door of the conning tower.

He paused before leaving the deck and cast a glance around the horizon. There was nothing in sight. With a sigh he stepped over the threshold.

The interior of the conning tower was fitted up with the usual objects found in such places. There was a steam steering wheel, a set of electric calls, a compass and a number of loose articles scattered about the deck.

At one side was an iron ladder leading forward into the officer’s quarters. Looking down this Clif saw that the apartment was empty. The deck was littered with broken chairs, clothing and a riffraff of articles. Everywhere were signs of disorder and wreck.

“I believe I understand matters now,” said Clif, slowly.

“For goodness’ sake, tell us!” exclaimed Nanny.

“I think something must have happened on board this boat to frighten the crew, and they abandoned it in a desperate hurry.”

“But that dead man?” said Joy.

“He was caught in the conning tower by the slamming of the door, and was left behind.”

“But what kill him?” spoke up Trolley. “This boat no been long abandoned, and he no die by starvation.”

Clif laughed.

“You stump me, Trolley,” he confessed. “I guess we are no nearer the solution than before. We’ll have to search further for clews.”

“And grub,” put in Nanny.

“Yes, and grub.”

Clif led the way into the officers’ mess-room, which was at the foot of the iron ladder. Picking up a coat, he examined it critically.

“We haven’t thought about the nationality of this craft,” he said. “I do not believe it is an American or English torpedo boat.”

“I guess you are right,” called out Joy, holding up a bundle of periodicals. “These are certainly not English.”

Clif took them from his hand and glanced at the first.

“It’s a French newspaper,” he announced. “And the others are also French.”

“Here’s a book on navigation in the same language,” spoke up Nanny from one corner of the apartment.

“This settle it,” cried Trolley, triumphantly waving a tricolored flag he had found in an open drawer. “This is French torpedo——”

Bang!

The boys started and exchanged glances of consternation. The sharp clang of an iron door closing violently came from aft.

Nanny made a leap for the short flight of stairs leading to the deck and disappeared before Clif could stop him.

“What——” began Joy.

Before he could finish the sentence a loud cry came from above and Nanny reappeared in the opening. He was greatly excited.

“Come on deck!” he gasped, swinging his arms. “Quick! there’s a ship in sight, and Judson has stolen the launch to go to it!”

The three cadets dashed through the conning tower, and on reaching the upper deck saw instantly that Nanny had spoken the truth.

Just barely visible above the rim of the sea off the port beam were the upper topsails of a ship. And standing away toward it was the sailing launch with Judson in the stern.

“Oh, the miserable villain!” cried Clif, shaking his fist after the recreant lad.

“Hi! come back you——” Trolley ended with a string of Japanese expletives.

The launch was not too far distant for Judson to hear, but he paid no heed.

“If I have gun I make him come back,” said Trolley, savagely. “Some day I beat him head off.”

Clif remained silent. Leaning against the conning tower he watched the launch skim over the dancing waves. But there was an expression upon his handsome face that bodied ill for the traitor.

In the excitement of the moment the mysterious slamming of the door below had been forgotten, but it soon recurred to Clif.

“We’ve got to find out what’s aft,” he said, after a pause. “Nanny, you remain on deck and keep watch while Trolley, Joy and I go below.”

“Do you think it’s the old Monongahela?” asked the lanky plebe, staring at the distant sail.

“Hard to say. It may be. I wish we could make some kind of a signal.”

“Why not start a smoke?” suggested Nanny, brightly. “We can make a fire on this iron deck and——”

“We’ll do it in the furnaces,” hastily interrupted Clif. “It’s a good idea.”

He ran along the sloping top of the torpedo boat and was soon tugging away at the door of the after conning tower. He knew from previous study on the subject that crafts of that class have the crew’s quarters in the stern.

The hull is too narrow for passage from one end to the other, and all communications must necessarily be made by way of the upper deck. The mysterious noise had come from this part of the craft, Clif reasoned, so if there were any one on board they would be found in the after apartments.

The combined efforts of the three boys finally sprung the door open. As it yielded they hastily jumped aside. Their experience with one dead man was sufficient.

“I guess the supply has run short,” said Clif, grimly, as he peered into the circular room.

“Everything looks shipshape down there,” remarked Joy, pointing to where a glimpse of the lower interior could be seen. “Come on.”

He made one step over the threshold, then he stopped with a gasp. From some spot below came a weird, shrill voice.

“Au secours! au secours!” it said. “J’ai faim. Au secours!”

Joy hastily sprang back. His face had paled and his hands trembled as he pointed behind him.

“There’s a man below there,” he cried. “Did you hear that?”

“I heard him,” replied Clif, eagerly. “It’s a Frenchman, sure enough. He is calling for help.”

Leaping past his companions, he disappeared down the ladder leading to the lower deck. Joy and Trolley tumbled after him.

They found themselves in a much larger apartment than that forward. It was not furnished so comfortably, containing only a few benches, a swinging table and half a dozen hammocks.

A pile of broken crockery occupied one corner, and swinging from hooks were several pans, and strings of tin cups.

Forward of the larger apartment was another, also containing hammocks. In this latter room were several chests, one being marked with a name in black letters. It was evidently the name of the torpedo boat. It ran:

“Le Destructeur,”

and after it was the word “Havre.”

“That settles the nationality,” said Clif.

He peered about the apartments, but nowhere could he see a man or anything resembling a man. The voice had surely come from this part of the ship.

“Hello! hello!” called out Joy, stamping his foot. “Qui, qui, monseer, avec vous in here anywhere?”

Clif was compelled to smile at the lanky cadet’s attempt at French. He had studied it at home himself sufficiently to read and understand, but he could not speak it correctly.

“This is certainly strange,” he said, poking behind the chests. “Where in the deuce is the fellow?”

“Maybe he in fire-room,” suggested Trolley.

“That’s so. Let me see, the only way to get in there is by way of the hatch on deck. We’ll try it.”

After another thorough search the three boys started to ascend the ladder. Just as Clif, who was last, reached the conning tower, a shrill, queer voice broke out behind him:

“C’est epatant qu’en Angleterre.

Y’ait des Anglais.”

It was a snatch of a recent popular Parisian air!

The cadets stood as if turned to stone. The voice came from almost directly under their feet. And the tone! And the words!

Clif felt his hair tingle, and a cold shiver run down his back. It was uncanny, to say the least.

Trolley, ordinarily jolly, had an expression much like that of a man who had met a ghost in a dark wood. And Joy was not a whit better.

“Guess the d-d-darned thing’s too much for me,” he said, shakily. “Suppose we go on deck and th-think it over?”

“Not much,” replied Clif, but with no great emphasis. “There’s a man down there somewhere, either sick or crazy, and it’s our duty to find him.”

“Where in thunder is he? We’ve searched the confounded place from deck to ceiling.”

“He not in fire-room,” said Trolley.

“No. That voice——”

“De l’eau! de l’eau! de l’eau!”

The words floated up the opening as plainly as words can be spoken. But this time they seemed to come from the after end of the crew’s quarters.

Clif sprang down the ladder at great risk to his neck.

When the others followed they found him tumbling the hammocks about.

Trolley and Joy assisted him, but the three had only their labor for their pains. Not a sign of the mysterious stranger could they find.

“You fellows can do as you please,” suddenly announced Joy, “but this child is going on deck. Excuse me; I don’t want any French shades in mine. The old tank is—oh, lud!”

He broke for the ladder and scrambled from sight. From almost over his head had come a groan.

This time Clif was thoroughly startled. The place, the circumstances and the voice was too much for him, and he hastened after Joy with Trolley a close third.

On reaching the deck they found the lanky cadet leaning against the conning tower and looking rather foolish. He evaded their gaze and pointed astern.

The action of the waves had brought the distant sail in that direction.

Clif gave an exclamation of keen disappointment.

“She’s passing!” he said. “She’s much further away. We must do something if we want to attract her attention.”

He paused only to see that the sailing launch was still in view, then he began to tug away at the iron hatch leading to the after fire-room. It required considerable effort to open it, but the iron hatch yielded at last, revealing a perpendicular ladder leading into a dark space below.

Clif’s anxiety to start a signal caused him to forget his previous fears. With a cheery “come on, fellows,” he dropped down the ladder.

It was the after of the two fire-rooms with which Le Destructeur was provided. The small furnace—small in comparison with the general run of men-of-war furnaces—occupied the greater part of the compartment.

The fire-box door swung open, clanging back and forth with each roll of the hull. Scattered about were heaps of coal and ashes. Over in one corner was a pile of oily waste.

Seizing an armful, Clif thrust it into the fire-box, then he began to search his pockets. He looked up with a laugh as Trolley and Joy descended the ladder.

“If you want to see a first-class chump, just look at me,” he said.

“What’s up?” asked Joy.

“Been looking for matches in a pocket that’s soaked with salt water. We must have something to light this fire with. Joy, run down aft and see if you can find a match.”

“Excuse me,” hastily objected the lanky cadet. “Send Trolley.”

“Not much,” exclaimed that youth. “I no like French ghosts.”

“Then I’ll go myself,” replied Clif, moving toward the ladder.

“I say,” interrupted Joy, stopping him. “Why not send Nanny? The kid didn’t hear the voice. Perhaps he’ll solve the mystery.”

Clif chuckled.

“We’ll try it,” he decided, and forthwith began to shout for the youngster.

Presently Nanny’s head and shoulders darkened the opening.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Where is the ship now?”

“Almost disappeared. Can just see a smudge.”

“And the launch?”

“Judson is still sailing in that direction.”

“I say, Nanny,” said Clif, sweetly, “just drop down into the crew’s quarters and see if you can find a match. I want to start a smoke. Hurry, that’s a good fellow. We haven’t any time to lose.”

Nanny vanished. The boys exchanged grins, and awaited results.

“If he survives the shock he’ll be an invalid for a week,” chuckled Joy.

“I am rather sorry I sent him,” said Clif, regretfully. “He’s such a timid little chap that it may——”

A shrill yell interrupted him, then came a distant rattling and banging, then another wild shriek.

CHAPTER XIX. THE MYSTERY SOLVED.

The three middies raced to the upper deck just in time to see Nanny, white-faced and trembling, emerge from the after conning tower.

“Murder! help! help!” he wailed. “Oh, Clif, some one is down there. I heard a voice singing. Oh, let’s go away.”

“What is the matter?” demanded Joy, striving hard to conceal a laugh. “What in thunder did you see?”

“N-nothing, but I heard a cracked kind of a voice,” whimpered the little lad, almost in tears. “It—it seemed to come from the roof. Oh, the old tub is haunted! Let’s leave.”

“Never mind, youngster,” said Clif, kindly. “We heard the voice, too. There’s some mystery about it, but it isn’t ghosts. That’s silly. Did you get the matches?”

Nanny shook his head vigorously. Trolley went forward and presently returned with a box he found in the captain’s cabin. Five minutes later a dense smoke was pouring from the after funnel.

“I am afraid it is too late,” remarked Clif, watching the distant speck on the horizon. “That craft is bound south, and we are way to the eastward of her.”

“There is one thing we forgot when we were down aft,” suddenly observed Joy, placing one hand in the region of his fifth button. “We clean forgot the grub.”

“That’s true,” agreed Trolley.

“I won’t go down there if I starve,” came from Nanny, his face paling.

“We will have to do something,” said Clif, decisively. “There must be food on board, and water, too. I saw several boxes and tanks below. I don’t like the shades of departed Frenchmen, but I’ll do a great deal to keep from starving.”

“Suppose we go down and make plenty noise,” suggested Trolley. “We take clubs and—wait a bit.”

He hurried forward, and presently reappeared from the officers’ quarters with one hand clutching a pistol and the other a long, wicked-looking sword. Flourishing the latter, he cried:

“I cut the neck of any ghost now. Come! we march down right away.”

“He! he!” laughed Nanny; “Trolley, you have a different class of ghosts in Japan than those in other countries, I guess. Swords and guns are no good.”

“We try, anyway,” placidly replied the Japanese youth. “Who come with me?”

“All of us,” promptly announced Clif.

“Who go first?” was Trolley’s next question.

“You, confound your thick head!” retorted Joy. “Haven’t you got the weapons?”

Seeing no loophole, the Jap gingerly approached the door of the conning tower. Clif, who was close behind, suddenly uttered a deep groan.

Trolley dropped the sword and made a wild leap backward. A series of weird Japanese expletives came from his lips, then his jaw dropped when he caught sight of Clif’s laughing face.

“Oh, you fool me, eh?” he said, slowly. “Well, I go down and fool ghost.”

With that he vanished through the open door of the conning tower.

“We can’t let him have all the fun,” declared Clif. “Come on.”

When the three—Nanny accompanied them—reached the lower deck they found Trolley seated upon a chest, calmly surveying the field. He held the revolver in one hand, and the sword at a parry in the other.

“No hear anything yet,” he said, grinning. “I guess——”

“Jose! Jose!”

“Gosh! there it is again,” ejaculated Nanny. “Let’s go back. I don’t want——”

“Jose! tengo hombre! Dame un galleta.”

The words ended in a wail that sent cold chills through the cadets. For a moment it was in the minds of all to beat a hasty retreat, but Clif set his teeth, and said, determinedly:

“I won’t be frightened away from here again. Some one is playing us a scurvy trick. That wasn’t French; it was Spanish. If any chump——”

“Ach, du lieber!”

Clif sat down upon a pile of hammocks and held up both hands in disgust.

“And German, too!” he exclaimed. “Now what on earth does it mean? Where is the fellow, anyway?”

Joy was hungrily overhauling a locker which seemed filled with inviting-looking cans and jars.

“Don’t ask any foolish questions,” he said. “Here’s potted meats and jams and ship biscuit. Nanny, you half-sized idiot, get some water out of that breaker, and be durned quick about it.”

It was well on toward noon, and the boys were beginning to feel the gnawing of their naturally healthy appetites. They were also growing accustomed to the mysterious voice, so without more ado they joined Joy in his onslaught on the contents of the locker.

They were not disturbed while they attended to the pleasant business before them, so they made out fairly well.

“For this make us truly thankful,” said Joy, with a satisfied sigh as he polished off the last morsel before him.

“I say,” spoke up Nanny, “we’re better off than that cad, Judson Greene, even if we have a polyglot ghost in our midst.”

“Judson is bound to return,” said Clif, grimly. “When he does we’ll have a reckoning.”

Trolley lazily threw himself back upon a bench and observed:

“What we do now, fellows? We no can stay out here. Maybe ship no come.”

“What do you propose, your highness?” asked Joy, with fine sarcasm. “Shall we walk or take a cake of soap and wash ourselves ashore?”

“It’s a pity we can’t carry Le Destructeur into some port,” said Clif, musingly. “She seems to be seaworthy, and I guess the coal supply is all right.”

Trolley sat up and brought his hands together with an emphatic gesture.

“We do it; we do it,” he cried, excitedly. “I know how to run marine engine. I learn a little in Japan. Hurray! you be captain, and I be engineer. Hurray!”

Clif stared at him for a moment, then his face brightened.

“By George, Trolley, that’s the very ticket,” he exclaimed. “If you can run an engine we’ll take the old tank into the nearest port. There are charts and instruments in the captain’s cabin. And there are four of us—five if that chump comes back—and we ought to do it.”

Clif began to pace up and down the narrow room. That he was greatly taken with the idea was plainly evident. Suddenly while he chanced to be near the extreme after end, the mysterious voice wailed:

“Ach, du lieber! Carramba! Dame agua pronto!”

With a bound Clif reached the spot whence the sound seemed to come. He grasped the knob of a small trap-door in the wooden lining of the hull, and gave a quick wrench.

Something fluttered out and fell to the floor with a flapping of wings.

It was a parrot!

“Ha! ha! ha!”

“Ho! ho! This is rich!”

“Ha! ha! If I d-don’t stop laughing I’ll die!” gasped Clif. “Fancy being—ha! ha!—fooled by a pet parrot.”

The four boys were rolling upon the floor in an ecstasy of mirth. And over in the corner, eying them solemnly, was the parrot.

The poor bird was thin and its feathers hung down in a bedraggled manner. It looked as if it had undergone a siege with a cage full of monkeys.

“He! he!” it suddenly cackled. “Povre Juanito! Tengo sed. Ach, du lieber! Sacre!”

Clif moistened several sea biscuit in water and fed the starved bird. Then the boys enjoyed another fit of laughing and went on deck.

Their relief was manifest. The discovery of the parrot, which had evidently been shut in by accident, explained a great deal, and it drove away all uncanny suspicions.

After a brief consultation it was decided that Clif should act as captain and steersman, Trolley as engineer, and Joy and Nanny as firemen.

“If Judson turns up,” said Clif, glancing at the distant speck which represented the launch, “we’ll make him shovel coal all night.”

Trolley hurried below into the after engine-room to overhaul the machinery, while the three others prepared to start fires.

Blouses were stripped off and the trio fell to work with a will. The oily waste lighted before had died out, but another fire was soon ignited, and within half an hour the furnace was roaring.

Presently Trolley, greasy and black, joined them. There was a satisfied smile on his face.

“I find everything shipshape,” he said. “The engine in fine condition.”

He glanced at the steam gauge and added:

“Hurray! we soon be ready to start. You better look up charts and things, Clif.”

Faraday thought the advice good, so he hurried to the conning tower. He found the compass in its usual place; and stowed away in a little locker were two sextants and a chronometer.

The latter had stopped, however, and it was useless to him. A log-book written in French, bore as the last date the tenth of June. The observation for that noon was a degree of longitude near the coast of France.

“The boat has been driven to sea by some severe gale,” he reasoned. “That’s plain enough. But why did the crew leave her so abruptly, and what killed that man in the conning tower?”

These thoughts occupied his mind as he rummaged about the little apartment. He was in search of a chart. Finding none, he descended to the room used as the officers’ mess. Forward of this was the captain’s cabin, and directly aft the stateroom occupied by the other officer, who, on vessels of the Le Destructeur class, does duty both on deck and in the engine-room.

Noticing a heap of débris in the center consisting of clothing, bedding and riffraff of every description, Clif raked it aside.

To his surprise, he saw undeniable traces of fire. The flooring was eaten away or charred, and a hole gaped beneath his feet. Upon part of a wooden hatch was stamped a word which sent a flood of light through the lad. It was:

“Magasin.”

“The magazine!” Clif exclaimed, aloud. “It is where they kept the torpedo charges. And it has been on fire! Gorry! no wonder they fled.”

It was plain enough now. The boat had caught fire while at sea. An attempt had been made to extinguish the flames, but without success.

The dread belief that the flames would reach the powder and gun cotton had sent the crew away in a panic.

And the dead man?

“There is only one explanation,” muttered Clif. “He was caught in the conning tower by the jamming of the door, and the fright killed him. Gorry! no wonder. Waiting for a ton of gun cotton to explode under one’s feet is enough to kill anybody.”

That the fire did not reach the explosives was evident. The rolling and pitching of the boat had probably tossed a lot of dunnage upon the flames and extinguished them.

Clif hastened forward to acquaint his companions with the discovery. He found the steam whistling merrily from the exhaust pipes. Trolley was trying the engine, and the other two were still feeding the furnace.

Clif’s explanations were received with wonder. Nanny anxiously inquired if the fire was really out and, on being assured that it was, he returned to his task of shoveling.

Twenty minutes later the Japanese youth announced with a triumphant blast of the whistle that all was in readiness for a start.

Clif had succeeded in finding a book of charts. After careful figuring, he decided on a course. It was more or less guesswork, but he believed that he could at least take Le Destructeur into the path of vessels bound to the Mediterranean.

Taking his place at the wheel, the young captain signaled the engine-room. Trolley responded gallantly, and the torpedo boat’s screw began to revolve.

An enthusiastic cheer came from the fire-room force which had hastened to the upper deck to see the start.

Clif found the steering rather difficult at first, but he soon learned the wheel and brought the bow around toward the speck on the distant horizon which represented the launch.

“We can’t leave Judson out here even if he is a double-dyed-in-the-wool traitor,” he announced.

When the launch was brought within plain view it was seen that Greene had tacked, and it was evident he wished to regain the torpedo boat.

It did not take long to bring him alongside. He glanced sheepishly at the occupants of the deck when he finally crawled aboard.

The engines had been stopped and the four cadets were prepared to meet him.

Clif had his blouse off and his sleeves rolled up. Stepping forward, he said, peremptorily:

“Shed that blouse of yours, Greene.”

“What for?” demanded Judson, in evident alarm.

“You’ve got to whip me or take the worst hiding you ever received. Off with it. I’ll sail in, in about five seconds.”

“But——”

“Off with it.”

Judson sullenly obeyed, and stood on the defensive. Clif proceeded to business at once, and the two were soon dealing blows right and left. The other cadets looked on with grins of delight.

Clif had not only might but right on his side, and in a very short period Judson was crying “enough.” Then Trolley whacked him several times, and Joy added his share. To wind up the punishment, little Nanny administered a few well-directed kicks.

“Now, sir,” said Clif, sternly, “just thank your lucky stars that we didn’t leave you to the sharks. Go below and get something to eat.”

The engine was kept going until midnight, then as the boys were tired out, the fires were banked and watches arranged.

At daybreak little Nanny, who had the last tour of duty, espied a sail off the starboard bow.

He aroused the others, and steam was started at once. In time it became apparent to the excited boys that there was something familiar about the outlines of the ship.

“Hurray! hurray! it is the old Monongahela,” shouted Trolley, at last. “She come to look for us. Hurray!”

“I don’t think it is anything to cheer about,” sighed Joy, gloomily. “Ain’t we all right aboard here? Huh! now we’ll be plebes again, when we’ve been captains, and engineers, and—and coal heavers. I think it’s a shame.”

The rest rather agreed with him, nevertheless they were glad to see the practice ship.

When it became known on board the Monongahela who the occupants of the torpedo boat were the wildest excitement ensued.

A boat was lowered and the castaways—not forgetting the parrot—were carried back in triumph.

Clif and his companions were the heroes of the hour, and they were received with special distinction on the quarter-deck. They were delighted to learn that the other boats had been picked up and no lives lost in the catastrophe.

The torpedo boat was manned by a picked crew from the Monongahela and convoyed by that vessel to the mouth of the Tagus River.

The French Government was advised at once and word presently came that Le Destructeur’s former crew had been long since rescued.

By the time the Monongahela was ready to proceed up the Tagus to Lisbon, the capital of Portugal, a French gunboat was on hand to tow the torpedo boat back to Havre.

And so ended Clif’s first command.

CHAPTER XX. DIVING FOR REWARDS.

“There goes the little beggar again!”

“What a clean dive!”

“Yes; he is grace itself. But say, Clif——”

“He’s got it. Hurray! He catch dime plenty well. Hi! here another.”

“You are getting mighty liberal with your money, Trolley.”

“I no care. It worth dollar to see diving like that. Hi! you little boy, here some more.”

The group of naval cadets were leaning over the port railing on the forecastle of Monongahela.

It was shortly after quarters on a Saturday morning, and the trim old frigate was riding easily at anchor in the Tagus River just off the main landing dock of Lisbon, Portugal.

After a truly eventful voyage from Annapolis she had finally arrived in port, and the one hundred and sixty odd cadets on board were waiting eagerly for the time when they could have a run ashore.

The necessary formalities of port inspection had been gone through with, and the ship was in a gala attire aloft and alow in anticipation of the visit always paid an American vessel by the youth and beauty of quaint old Lisbon.

Boats filled with merry parties were coming from the dock even now, and the appearance of many pretty girls in them was beginning to take the cadets’ attention away from a previous attraction.

That attraction was the diving of a number of native boys after coins thrown from the ship. Alongside were half a dozen small and rickety boats occupied by the agile young divers.

They were continually importuning the cadets to toss bits of silver or copper money into the water.

One, a lithe, clean-limbed lad of about sixteen, was the leader of the party, and it was his clever diving which had wrung the words of admiration from Trolley, given at the commencement of this chapter.

The diversion of watching the divers began to grow monotonous after a while.

“The little beggars are pretty good, but their act palls on one,” yawned Toggles, stretching his arms.

“Did you hear anything about the liberty list, Clif?” asked Grat Wallace, with a yearning glance ashore.

“It isn’t made up yet, I believe. We won’t touch the dock until afternoon anyway.”

“And we have got to be back by ten o’clock,” grumbled Nanny.

“Always kicking, always finding trouble,” sighed Joy, with a doleful shake of the head. “Why can’t you be peaceable and contented like me, youngster? It’s painful to a man of meek and lowly spirit to see such contention and strife. If you don’t like the way they conduct liberty on this ship, why don’t you knock the blooming head off the executive officer? Act with due humility and beat the face off the captain.”

The others laughed. They understood Joy.

“I say, Clif, look there,” suddenly spoke up Trolley. “Here comes what you call peach.”

He nodded his head toward a couple of young ladies who were approaching from aft. They had formed part of a visiting party from shore and were strolling about the deck intent on inspecting the ship after their own fashion.

Both were very pretty, but one, a tall and rather willowy brunette, was particularly handsome. A wealth of lustrous black hair fell to her shoulders; her eyes were large and sparkling, and her lips, half parted, showed two rows of regular, pearly teeth.

She was smiling at something her companion had said as they neared the group of plebes, and the boys fairly gasped at her loveliness.

Clif eyed her furtively, his heart beating more rapidly than usual. His expressive countenance proclaimed his strong admiration, and that must have been the reason why the beautiful girl blushed slightly as she met his ardent gaze.

The girls stopped at the forecastle railing and looked over at the diver boys below.

They laughed, and one—the lovelier of the two—held up a small coin.

All the youthful divers prepared to spring into the water as soon as the bit of money left her hand. The lithe young leader poised himself upon the very edge of his boat.

“Ready!” called out the girl in Portuguese. “It is a hundred reis piece, so do your best.”

She gleefully waved her hand back and forth, then, just as she was about to release the coin, something bright and glittering slipped from her wrist and fell into the water.

It was a bracelet.

A little scream came from the girl, there was a commotion among the group of plebes, then one was seen to vault lightly over the rail and strike the water in a neat dive.

It was Clif!

In an instant there was great excitement on board the practice ship. The loud splash was heard fore and aft, and a rush was made for that side.

Some one raised a cry of “Man overboard!”

The officer of the deck sprang upon the gangway with a life-preserver, and the crew detailed to the lifeboat ran to their stations at the boatfalls.

And in the meantime the cause of all this commotion was experiencing a rather peculiar adventure.

Clif possessed to a remarkable degree the power of quick decision and action in cases of emergency. He seldom required more than a few seconds to make up his mind.

In the present case he was upon the rail and preparing to dive almost before the bracelet had touched the water. With all his promptness, he was not alone, however.

The young Portuguese boy—the chief spirit among the youthful divers—had also seen the flash of metal.

To him it meant a coveted reward, and his brown heels twinkled in the air just a second after Clif’s body left the top of the forecastle rail.

The two went under the water together.

Clif’s eyes opened after he vanished below the surface. He saw, glittering below him, the bespangled bracelet. And he also saw the dark shadow cast by his antagonist.

Of the two the native lad was probably more at home in the water, but Faraday had a store of determination and grit which made up for it.

As soon as he espied the youngster he realized the true state of affairs, and he sent his feet up with a spurt that shot him toward the glittering bauble.

It was a race beneath the surface of the old Tagus.

The Portuguese boy had as an incentive two things. One was the hope of a pecuniary reward, and the other an overwhelming desire to defeat this insolent visitor from a foreign country who dared to try his skill against a native diver of Lisbon.

As for Clif, what was his incentive?

A smile, that was all.

The bottom of the Tagus is easily reached by a few vigorous strokes. The bracelet had settled upon the bottom where it glittered and gleamed as if mocking the two lads.

Clif, by his spurt, had obtained a slight advantage, but he suddenly felt himself grasped about the waist.

He was just in the act of reaching for the bracelet when the interruption came.

The touch of the Portuguese lad’s hand acted like a spur upon him, and he made a desperate clutch downward.

His fingers closed over the bit of jewelry, then with a wriggle and a savage kick he freed himself and shot toward the surface.

As he rose, gasping and spluttering, his rival was close beside him. Through the water streaming from his hair Clif caught sight of the boy’s face, and he marveled at the intensity of hatred it expressed.

“I pay you for dis!” almost screamed the Portuguese. “You come ashore and I kill you. Dog of a Yankee, you hear from Pedro! You see.”

“Calm yourself, my friend,” drawled Clif, coolly, as he struck out for the gangway. “Don’t get excited; it is bad for the health. Ta! ta!”

Pedro swam to his little boat and crouched sullenly in the stern. His companions crowded around him and chattered like so many monkeys, but he waved them off, and watched with burning eyes the progress of the American lad toward the gangway ladder.

A loud cheer burst from the plebes on the forecastle as Clif held up the bracelet. The two pretty girls clapped their hands, and the one who had dropped the piece of jewelry seemed overwhelmed with confusion.

When Clif reached the deck he found both the first lieutenant and the officer of the watch awaiting him.

“What is the meaning of this, Mr. Faraday?” demanded the former, peremptorily.

Clif held up the bracelet, and replied, quietly:

“A young lady visiting the ship dropped this overboard, sir.”

The officers were compelled to smile.

“And you dived for it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which young lady was it?”

Faraday turned and indicated the owner of the bracelet, who was walking aft with her companion.

“Jove! I don’t blame the young rascal,” muttered the first lieutenant. “She’s a beauty.”

Extending his hand, he added, aloud:

“It was a gallant act, Mr. Faraday, and it does you credit, but it probably would have been better if you had left the job to one of those boy divers. I will return the bracelet to the young lady.”

But Clif hung back.

“Want the pleasure yourself, eh?” laughed Lieutenant Watson. “Well, you deserve it.”

That was Clif’s opinion also, and he lost no time in claiming his reward. He did not present a very prepossessing appearance in his dripping uniform, but he held his head jauntily and advanced to meet the girl.

His fear that she spoke only Portuguese was speedily dissipated. Extending her hands impulsively, she exclaimed, with an accent which added to the charm of her silvery voice:

“Oh, how I thank you for your kindness, señor! You have dared so much to save my poor bracelet. It was so good of you.”

“I am amply repaid,” replied Clif, gallantly. Then he added, with a smile: “You must pardon my rather moist appearance. The water was not altogether dry.”

“We will not keep you,” said the girl, hurriedly. “You should change your clothing.”

As Clif bowed and started to walk away, she blushed slightly and said:

“My parents will consider it a pleasure if you should call upon them. My name”—she extended a neat card—“and address. Can we not hope to see you soon?”

“I will be pleased to call when I go ashore,” replied the handsome young cadet. “Until then—good-by.”

As he walked forward he saw Judson Greene standing near the spot where the conversation had taken place.

“So Judson has been listening, eh?” thought the latter as he walked past. “He don’t look particularly pleased. Jealous, I suppose.”

He glanced at the bit of pasteboard in his hand and read:

Juanita Windom,
Ruo Ferdinand No. 78.

“Windom?” he muttered. “Why, that’s an English name. Her father must be either English or American. That accounts for her excellent command of the language. This is getting more interesting.”

His thoughts were interrupted by a shout, and he found himself surrounded by his friends. They were all laughing gayly except Joy, whose funereal cast of countenance seemed to have increased.

“Hi, Clif!” cried Trolley, slapping him upon the back, “by Jim, you great hero. Hurray! you save bracelet and win beautifulist girl in Lisbon. You one dandy.”

“Slowly there, Trolley,” laughed Clif; “I don’t see where I have won a girl.”

“She likes you; I saw her blush,” put in Nanny Gote. “Just you wait, Clif Faraday. I’ll tell Tess Herndon back in Annapolis all about this affair. I’d be ashamed of myself if I were you.”

“That’s straight,” chuckled Grat Wallace. “He’s getting to be a regular masher. He’s not content to keep the upper classes guessing about hazing, and saving torpedo boats at sea, and such little things, but he needs must——”

He dodged to escape a blow from Clif’s hand, and darted in high glee to the forecastle.

“Better go down and get those wet duds off,” advised Toggles. “You’ll look better.”

“Clif Faraday, what is the matter with the diver boy?” demanded Joy, solemnly. “He’s looking at this ship as if he would like to eat it.”

Clif glanced out through the nearest port. Pedro was still crouched in the stern of his little boat.

He gave a howl of anger on catching sight of Faraday, and added, with a choice collection of Portuguese epithets:

“Wait till I catch you on shore. I fix you. I make you sorry you dive. You see, dog of a Yankee.”

“He seems excited,” observed Clif, calmly. “His mind must have given way under the strain, poor fellow——”

Nanny stooped and snatched up a wet swab. Flung with unerring aim, it caught the vociferous lad in the face and bowled him over with neatness and dispatch.

A laugh greeted the shot. It was followed by cries of rage from the half-dozen diver boys in their little boats alongside the ship.

Pedro, the leader, gave a signal, and the flotilla paddled toward the dock. Clif went below to change his clothing, after a last glance in Juanita Windom’s direction, and the episode was closed save for one thing.

Standing near one of the open ports was Judson Greene. With him was Spendly.

“Did you see that Portuguese, Spendly?” asked Judson, in an eager voice.

“Yes.”

“Hear what he said?”

“He threatened Faraday.”

“Yes. Well, there’s a chance for us, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ll go ashore and see if we can’t use that fellow, Pedro, to help us get square.”

An hour later word was passed that the liberty party would leave for shore at once.

CHAPTER XXI. THE CONSPIRACY.

When liberty is given on a man-of-war the whole crew does not go ashore, but only a watch, or part of a watch.

The liberty party from the old Monongahela was composed of one-half of the port watch, and the forty odd cadets composing it glanced back in gleeful triumph at their less fortunate mates, who were watching their progress with lugubrious faces from the forward deck.

Conspicuous among the latter were Grat Wallace and Trolley, neither of whom were member of that half of the port watch.

They were doubly sorry that their names had not been included. They regretted that they were not going ashore and also that Clif, whom they liked and admired more than words could tell, would not be able to go with them on the morrow.

For Clif was in one of the boats speeding ashore, and naval cadets on a practice cruise are not permitted liberty two days in succession.

With Clif in the leading cutter were Joy and Nanny. And in the whaleboat following were Judson Greene and Chris Spendly.

Judson was very thoughtful on the way to the beach. He replied only in monosyllables to the chatter of his crony. He was evolving in his mind a scheme by which the boy Pedro’s newly developed hatred of Clif could be worked to the latter’s undoing.

And he was also going over in his mind the reasons why he, himself, hated Clif so bitterly. The thoughts carried him back to Annapolis and beyond.

There was a long list of little plots and conflicts and rather shady schemes Judson had originated, but he always had been worsted in all these conflicts.

This enmity started in Hartford, Conn., from which city both had entered the academy, and it had continued until the present moment.

When the cadets landed at the main dock they found a crowd of idlers gathered there, possibly attracted by the rumor that a number of American naval cadets would pay a visit ashore.

Curious spectators, beggars, small boys, boatmen, and all that go to make up the water-front population of a city like Lisbon, thronged the street outside the gate and made complimentary and other remarks as the boys passed from the dock.

In the background, partially concealed behind a group of spectators, was a lean, brown-skinned boy with shifty, furtive eyes and a shock of black hair.

He was clad only in a light shirt and trousers, both of which showed signs of recent contact with water. As the naval cadets trouped past he watched them eagerly until three walking together and laughing merrily came into view.

Then his little eyes contracted, his face darkened with rage, and the nails of his clinched fists bit deep into the flesh.

He drew back, but not before he was observed by two cadets who had loitered behind their companions. They walked on a few paces, then dropped back and approached the barefoot boy.

“I say, aren’t you the chap who was diving for pennies alongside the ship this morning?” asked one, with assumed carelessness.

The boy glared at them defiantly, and made a reply in Portuguese.

“Drop that lingo,” sharply exclaimed the cadet. “I know you can speak English because I heard you. Your name is Pedro, and you were defeated in a dive by one of our fellows.”

Pedro made an inarticulate sound in his throat and moved away as if with the intention of leaving the newcomers.

“I guess you had better wait a while if you care to get square with that fellow,” said Judson Greene—for it was he—placing one hand upon the lad’s shoulder. “We know all about the affair, and we are ashore to help you out a little if we feel like it. Any place about here where we can get a drink and have a quiet chat?”

Pedro eyed them for a moment from under his black brows, then he gave a little nod, and without a word, trotted off.

A brief period later the three precious rascals, Judson, Chris Spendly and Pedro were busily talking in the back room of a low fonda, or drinking resort, on one of the side streets leading from the water front.

In the meantime the rest of the liberty party was merrily proceeding toward the center of the city, attracting favorable greetings from shopkeepers, and glances of admiration from the pretty girls along the way, for the American naval cadet ashore is both liberal with his money, and gallant in his personal appearance.

Clif, Joy and Nanny were walking together and their hearts were light within them.

Three weeks on board ship with tumbling decks, close quarters and stormy winds made good dry land very attractive.

Joy alone looked gloomy. He was a human paradox. When his spirits were lightest his face showed the deepest depression.

“It’s worth while spending a long time at sea to get such an appreciation of mother earth,” laughed Clif, executing the first steps of a hornpipe. “Eh, Joy, old boy?”

“Oh, I don’t know; there are other pleasures,” sighed the lanky plebe. “And this isn’t such a great place after all. It looks nice enough from the ship, but——”

“‘Distance lends enchantment to the view,’” quoted Nanny, sagely. “You are right there. These houses that seemed so pretty with their different colors are not so much after all. The most of them are simply baked mud whitewashed or bluewashed or greenwashed, as the case may be. And look at the streets. Humph! they aren’t as wide as an alley at home.”

“I am sorry you boys are not pleased with the state of affairs,” said Clif, gayly. “I’ll see the king and have things attended to. There is one thing you must acknowledge though—the girls are handsome.”

“You noticed that quick enough,” sniffed Nanny, who had rather a contempt for the opposite sex. “You got a girl in Annapolis before you’d been there two days, and you picked up another here before the anchor chain had finished rattling through the hawse pipes. It’s a wonder you didn’t run across a couple of durned mermaids on the way over.”

Clif laughed.

“How can I help it, kidlets?” he replied, with a wink at Joy. “Don’t I try to keep the girls off? But they will fly to me like—like——”

“Niggers to a watermelon patch,” suggested Joy, gravely.

By this time the cadets had reached one of the main thoroughfares. As usual in such cases, they paired off and went in different directions.

Clif and his two chums remained together.

“We will take a look at the town and then I’ll leave you for a while,” announced the former.

“Going to call on Miss Juanita Windom, I suppose?” said Joy.

“Yes.”

“I think you might stay with us instead of chasing after a girl you never saw until this morning,” complained Nanny.

“I am not due there until four,” laughed Clif. “It’s now one, and we will have almost three hours in which to do the city. What more do you want, youngster?”

Nanny was compelled to acknowledge contentment, and the trio of friends strolled about the streets and visited the great cathedral, and conducted themselves much as boys do under similar circumstances.

At half-past three Clif called a carriage in front of the Praça do Dom Pedro, the principal square of Lisbon, and gave the driver a card upon which he had written Miss Windom’s address.

“I’ll meet you at six or thereabouts on the dock, chums,” he called back to Joy and Nanny. “Take care of yourselves and don’t get into any scrapes.”

“I have a contract to punch Judson Greene’s head if I run across him,” growled Joy. “He’s ashore, you know.”

“Yes. I saw him. But don’t waste any time getting into a row with the fellow,” replied Faraday. “He isn’t worth it. Ta! ta!”

They stood for a moment, and watched him whirl away, then they sadly turned and sauntered across the square.

If either had continued watching the carriage a trifle longer they might have seen something rather surprising.

While the vehicle was rumbling past the northern corner of the plaza, a lithe, brown-limbed, barefooted boy darted from behind a group of chattering beggars and swung on behind the carriage.

CHAPTER XXII. AND THEN SILENCE!

The top was down, but Clif was too engrossed in thought to discover the fellow. On went the conveyance through the miserably paved streets, on past churches and stores and residences, and away from the main portion of the city to a quiet, highly respectable suburb where the houses rested in detached grounds abloom with a wealth of semi-tropical verdure.

When the carriage finally slackened up a short distance from a pretty villa, the unbidden passenger was still swinging behind, but he leaped nimbly to the ground and darted into the shadow of a tree in time to escape notice.

The driver placidly overcharged Clif fourfold, and drove away, leaving the cadet to enter the grounds, where he received a hearty and blushing welcome from Juanita and her friend.

An hour later another carriage entered the street. It was of the same class as the first, but the box was occupied by a stalwart, black-browed native with a scowling face.

He drove slowly through the street, then turned back again, as if awaiting a call.

Time passed; the sun touched the western hills and disappeared, and the mist of an early twilight gathered over the city. A distant clock sounded the hour of six. From the great cathedral came a mellow chiming of bells, followed by a discordant clatter from some less favored church.

Suddenly the ornamented gate in front of the Windom villa opened and Clif emerged, gallantly lifting his naval cap to those inside.

He glanced hastily at his watch, then with a half-suppressed exclamation of surprise, looked about for a conveyance.

The carriage which had been loitering in the vicinity was coming briskly toward him. He hailed it, leaped inside, and was soon leaving the vicinity.

While passing a nearby corner Clif chanced to look over toward a barefoot lad standing under a wall lamp.

“Gorry! it’s that little beggar, Pedro,” he muttered. “What’s he doing out here, I wonder? Guess he saw me from the expression on his face.”

He fell to musing over the diving episode of the morning. From that to his extremely pleasant afternoon with Juanita was but a step, and Pedro’s scowling face speedily gave way to the beautiful, attractive countenance of the girl.

It was growing dark very rapidly.

The carriage rattled along over the rough cobbles and through streets entirely unfamiliar to the young cadet.

Presently it drew up with a jerk and Clif, aroused from a reverie, looked about him. He saw the façade of a large church on one side, and a small garden, inclosed by an iron railing, on the other.

It was high ground and through the trees of the park could be seen the spires of a number of chapels in the lower part of the city.

The street was apparently deserted, but lights here and there indicated the presence of inhabited residences.

Clif looked questioningly at the driver.

“Why did you stop here?” he asked at a venture.

“Me wanta show you fine view, señor,” replied the man, respectfully.

“View? I don’t care to see any view. Drive on; I want to reach the dock at once.”

“But, señor, it take you one minute. It ver’ fine view. All visitor come here at this time night. It no good any other time. You like-a it ver’ much. You no regret.”

Clif liked nature, especially in the shape of picturesque scenery. He knew that he would be late in meeting his chums, but he could not resist the temptation.

“Hurry up, then,” he said, springing from the carriage.

He did not see the triumphant gleam in the driver’s eyes as the fellow prepared to follow him, nor would he have understood the meaning if he had. Suspicion of evil was very far from Clif’s mind just then.

The horses were drawn up to the side of the street and left standing. As Clif and the driver entered the little park, which seemed untenanted, a brown-limbed lad, lithe and sinewy, hastily entered by another gate.

He was panting for breath as if from a long and hard run, but he did not slacken speed among the trees and bushes a few paces behind the others.

The driver glanced back once and saw him, but Clif continued on unsuspectingly to where the park ended abruptly at a low stone rampart.

Beyond this was a steep declivity—a stone precipice—which extended down with scarcely a break to the roofs of the houses one hundred feet below.

The face of the precipice was of rock with here and there a tuft of scraggly vegetation growing in the small crevices.

Clif paid little attention to these details. He was lost in admiration of the really beautiful view stretched out before him.

Darkness was almost at hand, but away in the east, a soft rosy glow still lingered above the hills. Down below at his feet was a panorama of lights and shadows, twinkling sparks of fire, and black objects grotesque in their vagueness.

The river flowed beyond the town, lighter in color and bearing smudges which on nearer view would have resolved themselves into steamers and ships and fishing craft of many sizes.

This much Clif saw and admired, then he remembered the lateness of the hour and was on the point of turning to go when suddenly he felt a pair of sinewy arms clasped about his body.

A low voice hissed some command in Portuguese, then a soft object, evidently a coat, was thrown over his head and wound tightly.

He struggled, of course, and tried to cry out, but the muffled sounds went no further than his lips.

He writhed and tugged and fought madly to free himself, but those inflexible arms did not yield.

A hand snatched away his watch, another went through his pockets with practiced deftness, then came a muttered exclamation, and the lad found himself being lifted from the ground.

This last movement wrung a cry of terror from his lips. He knew the intention of his assailants.

They meant to hurl him from the wall!

Crying frantically for help, Clif made one final, desperate effort to escape.

He struggled to free his arms until the muscles stood out in great bands; he kicked and butted, fought with hand and knee and teeth, but he was slowly and surely forced back against the hard stone rampart.

Then came the end. There was a last mighty effort, then a wild cry rang out into the night echoing down, down, down until a soft, crouching thud placed an abrupt period to the horrible shriek.

And then, silence!

CHAPTER XXIII. “CUTTER AHOY!”

In a back room of a disreputable drinking resort on a narrow street leading from the water front were seated two youths clad in the uniform worn by United States naval cadets.

On the table between them were a bottle and two glasses. Both youths were smoking cigarettes, and both appeared ill at ease.

“I can’t stand this much longer, Chris,” said one, nervously flipping the ash from his cigarette. “If that little beggar don’t turn up pretty soon——”

“You’ll go and look for him,” interrupted the other, with a sneer.

“Don’t be a fool. How could I find him in this confounded city?”

He snapped open his watch and added, abruptly:

“Almost seven. Confound it! what can be keeping him?”

“Probably had trouble finishing—— What’s the matter?”

The other had banged the table with his clinched fist.

“Shut up, will you?” he snarled. “Haven’t you any sense, talking like that? Do you want to get us—us hanged? People may be listening. It isn’t so anyway. Nothing was to be done except giving—except giving Far—him a scare.”

Chris Spendly slowly sent a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. He smiled grimly. “We won’t argue that question, Judson,” he drawled. “But when you cough up fifty dollars and promise fifty more, it’s not for the purpose of giving people a scare. And that’s true enough.”

Before his companion could reply there was a sound at a door leading to the rear yard. Both sprang to their feet, Judson white-faced and trembling.

A lithe, sinewy, barefooted lad hurriedly entered the room. He was breathing heavily, and his face was mottled white as if from deadly fear.

He tried to speak, but before the words could form themselves an interruption came in the shape of a loud knock at the door opening into the bar.

With a gasping cry, the lad vanished in the direction whence he had come. The cry was echoed by Judson, who stood cowering near the table.

“We are suspected,” he moaned. “It has been done, and they are after——”

“Stop that, you fool!” grated Spendly. “How can they suspect us?”

He strode to the door and fumbled at the key unsteadily. He was pale, but there was desperate determination written in his face.

At last the lock yielded and the door flung open revealing—the man in charge of the place.

“You want more drink?” he asked, in broken English, bowing humbly.

“No!” snarled Chris, tossing him a piece of money.

“Come on,” he added to Judson. “It’s time we were at the dock.”

They had presence of mind enough to saunter forth leisurely, but once free of the ill-favored resort they quickened their steps almost to a run.

“It won’t do for you to be seen looking like that,” exclaimed Spendly, roughly, passing under a street lamp. “Brace up, you fool. You would give yourself away to a blind man.”

Judson pulled himself together with an effort. He was ghastly pale, but he walked steadily as they resumed their way toward the dock.

They found the majority of the liberty party gathered there awaiting the hour set for returning on board.

It was on the stroke of eight and the boats were already on their way ashore.

Shortly after Judson and Chris reached the dock, a carriage drove up and Joy and Nanny leaped out close to where the former were standing.

Joy glanced anxiously from one to the other of the group of cadets. His face was even more grave than usual. And Nanny looked as if tears were not far away from his eyes.

“I say,” called out the lanky plebe, “has any one seen Faraday?”

Judson and Spendly shrank back into the shadows.

“No,” replied a first class cadet named Blakely. “He ought to be here. Why, what’s up? You fellows look worried.”

“We can’t understand why Clif isn’t here, that’s all. He went out to a place in the suburbs at four o’clock and was to meet us on the dock at six. We’ve been up to the house where he called and they said he left there in a carriage shortly before dark.”

“He may have stopped somewhere on the way back.”

“No. Clif is not the fellow to break a promise if he could help it.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” came from the shadows back of Blakely. “He’s not so much. I guess he’d break more than a promise if it came to the point.”

“You wouldn’t dare to say that to his face, Chris Spendly,” retorted Nanny, warmly. “He’d make you shake in your boots.”

Chris discreetly remained silent. His malignant nature had caused him to revile the boy whom he knew in his vicious heart was lying mangled and bleeding at the foot of the bluff, but he had sense enough not to carry it too far.

And Judson was frantically plucking at his sleeve and begging him to remain quiet for Heaven’s sake.

“I think you will see Faraday showing up in ample time, youngsters,” said Blakely, kindly, addressing Joy and Nanny. “There isn’t any reason why he shouldn’t.”

“Here come the boats!” suddenly exclaimed a cadet.

Three men-of-war cutters dashed in from the darkness and rounded to alongside the landing steps.

An officer sprang out, glanced at his watch, then cried briskly:

“The liberty party will fall in and answer promptly as the names are called.”

He produced a paper and rapidly read from it by the light of a boat lantern held by the coxswain.

“Mr. Andrews.”

“Present, sir.”

“Mr. Blakely.”

“Present, sir.”

“Mr. Caldwell.”

“Here, sir.”

“Donovan.”

“Present, sir.”

“Mr. Faraday.”

No reply. The line of cadets shifted uneasily and a subdued murmur arose.

“Mr. Faraday,” repeated the ensign, in a louder voice.

Still no answer.

“Any one seen Mr. Faraday?” was the next question, given impatiently.

“Not since four o’clock, sir,” replied Joy, glumly. “He went visiting and has probably been detained.”

“He knows the hour. We can’t wait longer than three minutes.”

The officer’s watch snapped with a determined click. The time passed slowly. Many anxious eyes were directed toward the gate at the end of the dock, for Clif, by his manliness and sturdy independence, won more than one friend even among the enemy.

“Time’s up! Get into the boats,” at last came from the ensign.

Joy and Nanny obeyed with evident reluctance, but Chris Spendly and Judson Greene seemed surprisingly eager to shake the dust of the city from their feet.

“I do not like to report Mr. Faraday absent,” said the young officer, as he took his place in the stern of the first cutter, “but duty is duty. Up oars! Ready! Let fall——”

“Cutter, ahoy!”

The hail, clear and sharp, came from the other end of the dock. The gate swung back and a youth clad in a naval cadet uniform ran toward the boats.

As he passed under a light a cry came from one of the cutters:

“Clif Faraday!”

The cry was followed by a commotion in the boat.

“What’s the matter there?” called out the ensign, sternly.

“Judson Greene has fainted, sir.”

A little later a group composed of the majority of the plebes and a sprinkling of upper class cadets was gathered around Clif as he leaned against the pivot gun on the Monongahela’s forecastle.

The faces of all save the central figure were expressive of the liveliest interest and excitement.

“And they got you against the stone rampart in the park, you say?” eagerly questioned Grat Wallace.

“Yes,” replied Clif. “There were two of them, the driver of the carriage and that scoundrelly little diver, Pedro. I thought my end had come. In fact, to use a common expression, I saw my finish. I had no intention of giving up, though.”

“Not you,” broke out Nanny.

“Thanks,” laughed Clif; then he continued:

“I don’t know how it happened without”—his voice grew soft and reverend—“the Almighty interposed and aided me. All I know is that we were struggling on the very edge of the stone rampart when the driver slipped over the edge and”—Clif shuddered—“fell down to a horrible death.”

“Served him right!” exclaimed more than one voice.

“I whipped the coat from my head just in time to see Pedro disappear among the trees. I gave chase, but he escaped me. I was pretty well shaken up, I tell you, but I managed to reach the central police headquarters and told my story to an interpreter.”

“And the driver?”

“They found him an hour later on the roof of a house at the foot of the bluff. He was a mass of broken bones.”

“And all this was done simply because you made that little Portuguese diver angry this morning?” said one of the group.

“I suppose so,” replied Clif, thoughtfully; “but it does seem the fellow must have had some other reason than petty revenge and robbery. If so, it’s bound to come out some day.”

CHAPTER XXIV. THE ENGLISHMAN WITH A “HAW!”

“Haw, ye don’t mean to say the blawsted thing will fire a shot forty miles?”

“Thirty-nine miles, two hundred and fifty yards, fifty-six feet and eleven inches is the exact record, sir.”

“But, don’t ye know, that’s almost as far as it is from Lun’nun to Oxford, bah Jove!”

“Just thirteen feet, three inches further, sir.”

“Haw!”

“The charge is the most peculiar part of it, sir.”

“Ya-as?”

“Very peculiar. In fact, you would hardly believe it.”

Clif, who was the speaker, leaned confidentially toward his companion, and added, in an impressive whisper:

“We use green Holland cheese, sir.”

“What! Bah Jove, you cawn’t use cheese to fire a gun, don’t you know?”

“Fact, sir. I’m not supposed to give the secret away, but I know you won’t repeat it. The American Government is very progressive, sir. And the American naval officer is great on inventions. It was a cadet that invented the ‘cheesite,’ as the new explosive is called. He made the discovery in a very queer way.”

Clif paused a second for breath, then he continued in the same impressive tone:

“He was a shipmate of mine at the academy, sir. His name was Mudd. Funny name, eh? Well, Mudd was very fond of Dutch cheese. Ate it all the time. One day he brought a pound or two into our room—I bunked with him, you know—and hid it in the stove. There happened to be a little fire in it, and bless me if the cheese and heat didn’t generate gas and blow the room into the middle of the Severn River. I was nearly drowned trying to swim ashore.”

“Haw! Most extraordinary. Must make a note of it.”

“Great, isn’t it? Well, Mudd—when he left the hospital, had three ribs broken and lost a piece of his solar plexus—he experimented on the ‘cheesite,’ found the gas, and is now worth a million. Great, isn’t it?”

Clif’s companion was an Englishman of about twenty-three. He had a full, round red face with a pair of pronounced “mutton-chop” whiskers. A single glass, or monocle, was screwed tightly in one eye; and he was dressed in tweeds of the loudest patterns.

There was a vacant, open-mouthed expression on his face that seemed peculiarly appropriate to his general appearance.

The young naval cadet finished his remarkable description of the discovery of “cheesite” without the slightest indication of mirth.

“Haw! Most extraordinary invention!” exclaimed the Englishman. “But you Americans, don’t ye know, are extraordinary creatures, anyway. Haw! I had a cousin who went across the pond a few years ago. Landed in Ohio or some other town, I believe, and started the most peculiar business. Haw! it was really remarkable.”

He stopped to give his glass another twist, and continued, with a yawn:

“Haw! the cousin was a queer fellow. He ran away to—aw!—Africa or Iceland when he was a youngster, and had a wild time of it. Then he settled down in Lun’nun, and——”

“What was the queer business he was in?”

“Yas. He settled in the town of Ohio and started a shop, don’t you know. Haw! haw! It was deuced comical. I split me sides every time I think of it, don’t ye know.”

“But the business?”

“The business? Haw! I forgot what it was, ye know. But it was a blasted peculiar thing. Haw!”

Clif laughed.

“I am deuced obliged to you for your trouble, don’t ye know,” resumed his companion, extracting an elaborate case from his coat. “Here’s me pasteboard. I—aw—would be delighted to see you again.”

“Thanks. I haven’t a card with me, but my name is Faraday, Clifford Faraday, and I am a naval cadet of the new fourth class on board this practice ship, the Monongahela. We left Annapolis, Maryland, where our naval academy is situated, several weeks ago, and have been here in Lisbon three days.”

Clif read the card. The words, finely engraved, were:

“J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate,
“London, England.”

It was shortly before noon. The presence of the old American frigate, which, despite her age, was trim and neat aloft and alow, had attracted a number of visitors from the city.

The officers of the ship and the naval cadets forming the crew, always gallant and hospitable, had welcomed them heartily, and were showing the vessel.

To Clif’s lot had fallen this exaggerated specimen of the genus Briton, and the cadet’s delight was great.

He proceeded to spin yarns that even the proverbial marine would not listen to, but J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate simply looked vacant and said “Haw!”

The day was bright and pleasant, and the crowd of visitors was constantly increasing. The élite of the city had evidently selected this day on which to inspect the “Yankee” practice ship, as the visitors were altogether of the better class.

The broad spar deck was thronged with handsome girls and well-dressed gentlemen. The gay European costumes, interspersed here and there with the attractive uniforms of the officers and the natty dress of the cadets, formed an inspiring scene.

A band, made up of naval cadets, discoursed sweet music from a tastefully decorated stand on the quarter-deck. From the spanker-gaff floated the Stars and Stripes resplendent in new bunting.

While Clif was reading the inscription on the card given him, Nanny hurriedly approached him, and said, in a stage whisper:

“She’s coming, Clif. She’s in a boat alongside.”

“Who? Not——”

“Yes. It’s the girl. It’s Miss Juanita. She’s got another girl with her.”

“Thanks,” replied Clif, hurriedly. Turning to J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate, he added:

“Please excuse me, sir. I wish to meet a friend.”

“Certainly, by all means, deah boy,” drawled the Englishman, waving his monocle. “I am deuced obliged to you for your—aw!—kindness, don’t ye know. Pray consider my rooms ashore your—aw—home. Glad to see you again, don’t ye know.”

As Clif hurried toward the gangway something very like a scowl came into J. C.-C. Cate’s previously vacant face, and he muttered beneath his breath:

“Miss Windom coming aboard here? And she knows this young cub of an American. What complications will this lead to?”

CHAPTER XXV. SAVING A KING.

Clif reached the gangway ladder just as Juanita Windom stepped down to the deck, accompanied by another girl of her own age.

When she espied the young cadet she blushed slightly, and held out her hand, with a winning smile.

“This is indeed a pleasure, Miss Windom,” he said, with even more earnestness than the remark warranted.

“To me, Mr. Faraday,” the fair young girl replied, laughingly. “I have been longing for the time when I could return your visit of—of—when was it, Elna?”

“Such a long, long time ago,” responded her companion, mischievously. “It was day before yesterday.”

“Only day before yesterday,” laughed Juanita Windom, with a shy glance at Cliff, who looked extremely self-conscious under the battery of such eyes. “Why, it seems months since you called at the house. And the dreadful adventure you had at the upper plaza when that horrid driver tried to rob you, and throw you down the cliff. It was in the papers yesterday. You must tell me all about it, Mr. Faraday.”

“I will be delighted——”

“Haw!”

The little group turned at the sound. The Englishman, monocle screwed tightly in his eye, was making a profound bow to Juanita.

“Haw! delighted, Miss Windom. Delighted to see you on board, don’t ye know. Beautiful—aw!—day; lovely weather, lovely girls, and you—aw!—the fairest of them all.”

“Haw!”

The exclamation did not come from the Briton, and he looked at Clif, finding that youth apparently engaged in the innocent occupation of arranging the strap of his cap.

Juanita and her friend repressed their laughter with difficulty.

“Haw! it must have been an echo, don’t ye know. Fawncy hearing one’s own voice when you didn’t speak. Deuced good joke, eh?”

And the Englishman burst into a hearty laugh. But there was something in it that did not ring true to Clif.

By skillful maneuvering Clif succeeded in bringing Juanita’s friend and J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate together, then he boldly walked off with the fair beauty of Lisbon.

“There is a splendid view of the river from the other side of the deck, Miss Windom,” he said, leading the way past the mainmast. “I fancied you did not care to remain with that gentleman,” he added, frankly, when they were alone. “And, anyway, I wished to tell you all about my adventure of the day before yesterday.”

“And I am eager to hear it,” replied the girl. She continued gravely: “As for Mr. Cate, I do not like him. There is something about the man that repels me. He is a business acquaintance of father, and I met him while he was dining at our home.”

“A business acquaintance,” smiled Clif. “One would never connect business with—aw!—J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate, don’t ye know.”

Juanita laughed.

“It is not what you would call business exactly,” she replied. “Father is interested in pearls. It is a hobby and he has spent a long time and a great deal of money in collecting them. He has one of the largest collections in the world, I believe. This Mr. Cate is trying to complete a certain necklace, and he came all the way from London to see if father has one of the required size. He has, but I do not think he will part with it.”

“So that is the story of Mr. Cate, eh?” said Clif. “Well, we’ll talk on a more pleasant subject.”

“Tell me about your adventure with——”

She was interrupted by a commotion at the gangway. A splendidly equipped barge, glittering with brass and polished wood, dashed alongside, and an officer fairly covered with gold lace ascended to the deck.

He was met by the executive officer and conducted to the cabin. A few minutes later he reappeared and was rowed ashore.

Then orderlies ran here and there, officers hurried below, and a general air of excitement prevailed.

“Something is in the wind,” said Clif. “That officer brought an important message. Ah! there goes the boatswain’s mate to pass a call.”

A sturdy old sailor, with the insignia of a petty officer upon his sleeve, rolled to the vicinity of the mainmast and gave a long, shrill whistle, adding in a deep, salty voice that had been trained in many a gale:

“A-a-all hands-s-s, dress ship! And st-stand by to man yards. Look lively!”

Like wildfire the word went along the deck:

“The king is coming on board!”

“I believe that is right,” Clif said to Juanita. “They are certainly excited enough. Well, I must leave you for a little while. Duty calls me up on one of those yards. Please do not go away until I see you again.”

“I am afraid I must,” the girl replied. “I promised to lunch with father in the city. I’ll stay a moment to see the king, though. By the way, Mr. Faraday, father would be pleased to have you call at the house this evening if you come ashore.”

“And you?” asked the lad, softly.

“What a question!” murmured Juanita, her eyes falling under his ardent gaze. “Why, I—I—that is—my father’s wish is law, you know. I must coincide with what he says.”

“No, that is not enough,” persisted Clif.

“Well, if you insist,” laughed the girl, “I’ll say——”

“Haw! here you are, my dear Miss Windom. Ha! ha! you quite escaped us. Deuced cruel of you, don’t ye know.”

The Englishman sauntered up, twirling his monocle in an affected manner. Turning to Clif, he added:

“What’s the row, dear boy? Are you going to bombard the blooming town?”

“No,” shortly replied Faraday. “The king is coming on board.”

The effect of this commonplace announcement upon the Englishman was remarkable.

He started as if struck; his face became ashen in color, and he appeared to breathe with difficulty.

“What is the matter?” asked Clif, startled. “Are you ill?”

“No—no, a little attack, that’s all, don’t ye know,” replied Cate, recovering himself with an effort. Another moment and he had regained his usual composure.

“Haw! bah Jove, Richard is himself again,” he drawled, carefully adjusting his eyeglass. “So his royal highness is coming aboard? I’ll be glad to—aw—meet him, don’t ye know.”

“And so will he be glad to meet you—not,” replied the cadet, the last word sotto voce.

With a low bow and a smile to Juanita, he hurried away to his station.

The two girls strolled to the other side of the quarter-deck as if unconscious of the Englishman’s presence.

Once alone, the latter’s face again took on that hunted expression noticed by Clif. He leaned against one of the broadside guns and stared absently through the port.

“It is fate,” he muttered; “grim fate. It is ordered and must be done. It’s a pity, too. The other chance was so good. Just think of it; strings of them, and each worth a fortune. And the girl, too. If I had the opportunity and that cub of a boy was out of the way—but what’s the use of dreaming? Duty first, then pleasure. Yes, pleasure, if”—he laughed mirthlessly—“if I live to enjoy it.”

A shrill piping of the boatswain’s whistle interrupted his soliloquy, and he turned to see a rainbow of gay bunting flaunt bravely from a line stretched over the three mast trucks.

Some one near him pointed in the direction of the shore, and exclaimed that the king was putting off in the royal barge.

There was a rush for the side, but J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate remained in his former position, the expression upon his face becoming more and more pronounced.

In the meantime Clif had joined the other cadets in the work of preparing the ship for the royal visitor.

Being a plebe, Clif’s duty did not carry him above the deck, but he found plenty to do elsewhere.

Shortly after he left Juanita the crew were called to quarters. Each cadet hurried to his station at one of the guns and stood at attention with military precision.

A moment later the saluting battery opened fire and thundered forth the national salute of twenty-one guns.

The sulphurous vapor from the last discharge had barely lifted above the hammock netting when the cannon in the fort ashore began.

The distant booming of artillery, the smoke enshrouding the old practice ship, the scores of bright flags fluttering from the masts, and the silent groups of uniformed men and cadets lined up on each side of the snowy decks formed an inspiriting scene—one to tarry long in the memory.

Clif with Joy, Trolley and Nanny were stationed at the after starboard broadside gun.

From where he stood Faraday could see the visitors grouped on the port side of the deck. He managed to catch a fleeting gleam from Juanita’s sparkling eyes, then his gaze wandered to a figure clad in the loudest of loud English checks.

It was J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate.

The doughty Briton had dropped his eyeglass and was staring eagerly toward the gangway. To Clif, who was not more than fifteen feet away, his face seemed absolutely transfigured.

He no longer wore the vacuous, simpering expression, but into his face had crept an air of desperate determination so intense that Clif marveled at the sight.

“I say, Trolley,” he whispered to the Japanese youth, who stood next to him, “just look at that blooming Englishman.”

“He sick?”

“No, but he seems greatly excited. That fellow is a mystery to me. I thought at first he was an empty-headed dude, but, by George, I believe he is playing a part.”

“What for?” queried Joy, who had overheard him.

“I don’t know,” replied Clif, “but I’ll keep my eyes on him just the same.”

Joy winked at Trolley.

“It’s a case of jealousy,” he said. “Clif doesn’t like the way he is hanging around Miss Windom.”

Faraday laughed easily.

“If you knew her you would see the ridiculousness of your remark,” he retorted. “She——”

“Silence there,” sharply called out the gun captain. “Attention!”

There was a rattle of drums, a blare of bugles, then a stout, dark-featured man with a heavy, curled mustache and a full sweeping beard stepped down from the gangway.

The side was manned by a number of officers who raised their caps in a salute as the visitor passed them.

It was Dom Carlos the First, King of Portugal.

He was accompanied by a gayly uniformed suite composed of naval and military officers, but he, himself, was attired in simple civilian clothes.

Captain Brookes, at the head of his staff, advanced to meet the royal visitor. Bowing profoundly he uttered a few words of welcome and led the way toward the cabin.

Clif, after one quick glance at the king, again turned his attention to Cate, the Englishman.

The fellow had stepped back, crouching behind the group of absorbed spectators, but his face was plainly visible.

The expression of implacable hatred upon it sent a flood of light through Clif’s mind, and he involuntarily advanced a pace from the gun.

“Get back there,” came sternly from the petty officer in charge. “What do you mean by——”

He stepped back aghast.

There was a sharp cry, a shrill note of warning, then a clamor of excited voices sounded through the ship.

A figure clad in cadet blue was seen to leave the after starboard gun and with one great leap reach the side of Dom Carlos.

It was Clif!

At the same moment a man, who had bounded from among the spectators, sprang upon the king.

There was a glitter of steel, then as the threatened monarch staggered back to avoid the blow, a pair of little arms were thrown about the would-be assassin’s body!

CHAPTER XXVI. AUDIENCE WITH A KING.

The excitement that ensued was intense. There was a rush for the spot by visitors, officers and crew. A chorus of screams from the feminine visitors, a quick word of command, and an excited jumble of English and Portuguese.

The crowd suddenly swayed, and a man in civilian clothing—a suit with a loud check pattern—was seen to savagely force his way to the ladder leading to the after deck.

A score of hands clutched at him, but he eluded them and gained the top. As he paused for a second, bareheaded, disheveled, breathing heavily, a cry came from the frantic mob below.

“It’s the Englishman!”

“Yes, the Englishman!” he flung back, fiercely. “I defy you, slaves of a royal master. I have tried to strike a blow for your liberty, hounds, a blow for the world’s liberty, and have failed. I——”

A bullet whistled past his head, but he never flinched. As the crowd below surged up the ladder eager to tear him limb from limb, he retreated slowly and with magnificent courage to the railing.

As the foremost of his pursuers reached the deck, he sent a curse at them, then turned and sprang over the side into the swiftly moving waters of the Tagus.

“After him! Quick! Five thousand milreis to the man who captures him alive!”

These words, in broken English, came from one of the royal suite.

A rush was made for the side, and eager glances were cast down toward the river. A dozen excited sailors and cadets recklessly leaped into the water and began a search, but nothing was seen of the desperate fugitive.

The Tagus in the immediate vicinity of the practice ship was thronged with vessels of all classes, attracted to the spot by the royal visit, and it was observed at once that the assassin’s chances for escape, if he was an expert swimmer, were good.

There was commotion on board the neighboring craft, and many false alarms, but no certain sign of the Englishman’s presence.

When the excited crowd on the Monongahela turned inboard again, they found a group of officers and cadets surrounding Clif, who was calmly standing in the center while the surgeon fastened a temporary bandage round a bleeding cut in his right arm.

The king had been hurried to the cabin by his suite and Captain Brookes. A moment later he emerged and joined the group surrounding Clif.

“I want to see the brave American boy who saved my life,” he insisted. “It was he who foiled that assassin and he shall have my heartfelt thanks.”

“But, your majesty,” implored one of his military staff, in Portuguese, “there may be other wretches on board. They may make another attempt on you.”

“Then keep every one at a distance,” was the retort. “Act rather than talk. It is strange you and your comrades did not prevent that man from making his attempt. What has been done to capture him?”

“Word was sent ashore at once, sire. A launch is even now on the way with instructions to the chief of police and the general in charge of the district. The assassin will be in prison before dark.”

“See that he is!” exclaimed the king, imperiously.

Turning to Clif he extended both his hands and added in excellent English:

“My brave lad, I thank you. I deplore the wound you have received in my service.”

“It is nothing, sir,” replied Clif, simply.

“A king’s life nothing?” smiled his majesty. “Ah, that is a democratic principle. It is American. I admire your cleverness and bravery. You will hear from me.”

He turned away, after learning from the surgeon that Clif’s wound was a mere scratch, and, surrounded by his suite, left the ship.

A wild cheer greeted him as he entered the barge, and there was every sign of joy at his escape.

As soon as the barge was clear of the Monongahela, Captain Brookes, ever mindful of his duty, gave orders to man yards and fire a second salute.

In the meantime the search for the Englishman had been prosecuted with vigor.

The news that a reward of five thousand milreis, about six thousand dollars, had been offered for the fugitive, dead or alive, had spread like wildfire.

In a remarkably short space of time the surface of the river in front of the city was literally covered with boats, large and small.

As the minutes passed and no sign of the Englishman was discovered, the belief that he had perished became prevalent.

When Clif went forward after an interview with the captain and officers of the Monongahela—an interview that caused his heart to beat with unaccustomed rapidity—he found an ovation awaiting him.

He tried to escape, and dodged down the forward ladder for that purpose, but a number of new fourth class cadets, headed by the lanky Joy, captured him, and he was borne in triumph about the decks.

“Hurray for the Yankee who saved a king,” shrieked little Nanny. “Three cheers and—and a whole cageful of tigers.”

The cheers were given and the tigers, too, but in subdued tones. It is not considered the proper thing to make much noise on board an American war vessel.

“You make one good speech now,” insisted Trolley, grinning broadly.

“Not much,” was Clif’s flat refusal. “I draw the line at that. What’s all this row about, anyway? One would think war had been declared at the very least.”

“Something more important than that, dear boy,” drawled Toggles. “I’ll wager anything the news is being cabled about the world this very minute. And the name of Clifford Faraday, new fourth class plebe, function, and rescuer of kings in general, will be in everybody’s mouth before dinner. Clif, your fortune is made. I see you Lord High Muck-a-Muck of Portugal before you are a day older.”

Clif laughed carelessly.

“I am content to remain a cadet in the United States Naval Academy,” he replied. “That’s honor enough for me.”

“What did the girl say?” asked Nanny, slyly. “I saw you talking to her after your great act.”

“If you want to know, youngster, she asked me to tea to-night and I accepted the invitation. She also said she would like to have me bring another cadet.”

A hubbub broke out at once. Every plebe within hearing was eager to be selected.

Clif finally decided to take Joy, much to the disappointment of the others. The liberty party was called away at one o’clock, and, shortly after that hour, the two chums found themselves ashore.

They little suspected as they carelessly walked toward the main plaza that they were destined to experience some very thrilling adventures before they again saw the old Monongahela.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE BROKEN TREE BRANCH.

The pedestrians in the streets taken by Clif and Joy little thought as they glanced carelessly at the two cadets that the sturdy youth with the intelligent, manly face was he who had saved their beloved ruler, Dom Carlos the First, from death that day.

It was well for Clif’s peace of mind and comfort that this was true, and he inwardly rejoiced thereat.

The city was in an uproar. All Lisbon seemed to be hunting for the fugitive and hoping against hope that he had escaped from the river.

The large reward was not the sole cause of this feverish activity. The people far and wide respected and loved their ruler and they thirsted more for the assassin’s blood than for the fortune his body represented.

The streets and plazas were filled with excited groups discussing the event. Platoons of mounted police and companies of soldiers kept the air ringing with the tread of galloping hoofs.

“It takes something like an attack on the king to stir up these people,” said Joy. He added, with a sigh: “Isn’t it enough to make a peaceful man sorrow to see so much strife and contention and—and pomp of war? Woe!—woe!”

“Oh, shut up, you fraud,” laughed Clif. “There isn’t a plebe in the academy, nor a cadet, who likes fighting more than you do. You would rather fight than eat.”

The two cadets spent some time looking about the city, then they engaged a carriage and ordered the driver to take them to the suburb in which lived the Windoms.

“This has been a day of events, chum,” remarked Clif as he leaned back in the vehicle. “Who would ever take that blooming ‘haw’ Englishman to be an anarchist, and one of the very worst type, too. Why, I guyed him for half an hour this morning and thought all the time he was a fool.”

“He was a fool,” replied Joy, grimly.

“Yes, otherwise he would never have tried such a preposterous trick. I wonder if he came here to make the attempt on Dom Carlos’ life?”

“Like as not. I read in a paper the other day that considerable activity existed in anarchistic circles. Sort of getting ready to slay a few monarchs, I suppose. They drove a lot of ’em from Paris and London. Perhaps this J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate was one of them.”

“No doubt,” yawned Clif, stretching his arms.

“D’ye think he was drowned?”

“Yes. He remained under water too long. Small loss to the community at large. I guess Miss Windom won’t wear mourning. She couldn’t bear the sight of him.”

“I don’t blame her. Was he a friend of the old man?”

“No. Merely a business acquaintance, I believe. Said he was looking for a certain-sized pearl to finish a necklace. Mr. Windom is a collector of pearls, you know. He has a fortune in them.”

Joy sighed.

“Wonder if the pearls go with the girl,” he sighed.

“Let’s talk on some sensible subject,” retorted Clif, shortly.

It was within an hour of dusk when they finally reached the pretty villa occupied by the Windoms.

The house was situated in the center of an extensive park, well-kept, and shaded by fine old trees. There was a small lodge at the gate, presided over by an elderly native, who admitted the cadets with every mark of respect.

He had evidently learned of Clif’s gallant deed that morning.

Juanita and her girl friend were awaiting them when they reached the house, and the cordial welcome the two lads received made them very happy.

Shortly before tea, Mr. Windom arrived from business. His greeting of Clif was characteristic of the man whose sole hobby in life was the collection of rare and valuable pearls.

“I am proud to know you, sir,” he exclaimed, wringing the lad’s hand. “Proud to know that you are a guest under my roof to-night. The whole city—the whole world, in fact—is ringing with your name. It was great, it was magnificent! It was a deed worthy of an American.

“But you are wanted at the palace, my dear boy. The king has sent messenger after messenger to the Monongahela in search of you. The old ship is fairly surrounded by steamers and tugs and small craft bearing bands of music and visitors. They call for you in vain. How can you remain in my poor house while the whole city is eager to see you.”

“If it is all the same to you, sir,” laughed Clif, “I’d much rather remain here.”

He glanced slyly at Juanita, and was gratified to see a soft, rosy flush overspread her fair cheeks.

Kindly-hearted Mr. Windom seemed greatly pleased at Faraday’s diplomatic answer, and carried both boys off to look at his pearls, which were kept in a small iron box in one corner of his private room.

After duly praising the really magnificent collection, some of which were almost priceless in value, Clif and Joy returned to the girls.

Three very pleasant hours were spent after tea, then the stern rules of naval discipline which had decreed that the ship must be gained before midnight, caused the two cadets to announce their departure.

Juanita and her friend were left at the house, but Mr. Windom hospitably started to see his guests to the gate.

“It is not often we have the honor of entertaining the rescuer of a ruling monarch, Mr. Faraday,” he smiled, as they walked down the tiled path. “So I must make the most of it.”

“I wish the king hadn’t come on board to be rescued, sir,” laughed Clif. “Especially in a country where so much—— Gorry!”

He stopped and placed both hands to his head. His cap had fallen to the ground, together with a large twig from a tree under which they had just passed.

“What is the matter?” asked Mr. Windom, hastily. “Are you hurt?”

“No. It startled me, that’s all,” replied Clif. “It was just a branch, rotten, I suppose.”

He picked up his cap and the twig, the latter more out of curiosity than anything else, and walked on after his companions.

“I must have those branches clipped again,” said Mr. Windom. “I did not know the trees were in such condition.”

Cordial farewells were exchanged at the gate, and the two cadets entered a carriage which had been ordered for that hour.

“I must be getting nervous,” laughed Clif as they rolled away from the villa. He held up the twig and added:

“When I jump on being struck by such as this, it is time——”

He ceased speaking abruptly, and uttered a low whistle. The carriage was passing close to a street lamp at that moment, and the light fell full upon the object in his hand.

“What’s up?” queried Joy.

“Do you see the end of this bit of wood?” replied Clif.

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s broken sharp and clean.”

“What of it.”

Clif glanced at the lanky plebe for a moment before replying, then he said, slowly:

“This twig is not rotten, chum. Neither did it break of its own weight.”

Joy showed more excitement than his wont.

“Then you think——” he began.

“There was some one up that tree,” finished Clif, impressively. “And he was there for no good.”

“Driver, let us out,” he added to the coachman.

The latter promptly drew up his horses and received his fare without a word of comment. He was too much accustomed to the vagaries of passengers in general to feel surprised.

A minute later Clif and Joy were hurriedly making their way back to the Windom villa.

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE MIDNIGHT MARAUDER.

“What do you think of it, chum?” asked Joy, as they rapidly retraced their steps.

“Hard to say,” replied Clif, briefly. “Perhaps a plot to rob the house.”

“Valuable pearls, eh?”

“Yes.”

“We may be mistaken after all,” persisted the lanky plebe. “Limbs have a habit of dropping from trees, you know. We would feel rather foolish if we aroused the house, and found only a cat or something like that. Miss Windom would laugh.”

“I’ll take the risk of that. I’d take any risk rather than see——”

“See the pearls stolen,” interrupted Joy, with an internal chuckle.

“Confound the pearls.”

“Oh, I meant girl. Excuse me.”

By this time the villa was reached. The extensive grounds were separated from the street by a stone wall ten feet in height and surmounted by an ornamental iron railing.

Clif halted near one end of the wall and announced that he would try to enter there.

“No use arousing the lodge-keeper,” he added. “There may be nothing in it after all, and I don’t want to raise an alarm without proof. You can stay here and I’ll take a peep through the grounds on the quiet.”

Joy protested, but Clif was firm.

“Well, it won’t be long until I follow you,” muttered the former as he gave his friend a “boost” to the top of the wall. “You are altogether too fond of getting into danger. I’ll have to look after you, sonny.”

Clif found it an easy matter to drop into the grounds. Once inside he crouched close to the wall and took his bearings.

The night had assumed that depth of blackness usual before the rise of a full moon. The villa grounds presented one smudge of darkness with no alternating patches of light and shade. A cool breeze came from the direction of the river, bringing occasional bursts of noise and commotion from the central portion of the city.

Clif moved away from the wall, stepping carefully and with hands outstretched.

He had not covered a dozen feet when he plumped squarely into a depressed flower bed, and sprawled headlong, creating what seemed to him a prodigious clatter.

He lay quiet for a brief period, then not hearing any sounds, rose to his feet and once more moved in the general direction of the house.

He knew that somewhere in the blackness in front was the tree, but of its exact location he was ignorant.

Suddenly a twinkling light appeared through the gloom.

It gleamed for a moment, then vanished.

“Guess they have gone to bed,” muttered Clif.

The thought gave him confidence, and he proceeded with less caution. The cadet had no desire to be discovered prowling about the Windom grounds. Explanations would be awkward, especially if the robber up the tree proved to be some marauding cat or restless fowl.

Clif was not so positive in his belief now. The simple fact that the limb had been snapped from the tree was no longer a convincing evidence that something underhand was in progress, and he proceeded in a half-hearted manner, almost decided to turn back.

Presently his feet touched gravel, and he knew that he had gained the path leading to the gate.

He paused and glanced about, at the same time listening intently. The only sounds came from Nature’s voice in the chirping of night insects and the distant murmuring of the city.

“Everything seems all right here,” muttered Clif. “I guess I was mistaken after all. I think I will——”

He ceased speaking and glanced upward, attracted by a rustling among the leaves of a tree under which he was standing.

Before he could move or cry out, a heavy object dropped swiftly upon him, and he sprawled headlong upon the path unconscious!

Out in the street Joy paced up and down impatiently in the shadows of the trees.

As the minutes passed without sign or sound of Clif, the lanky plebe became uneasy, and he reproached himself for permitting his friend to make the venture alone.

“There was no sense in it, anyway,” he muttered. “I could have gone along just as well as not. If he don’t come out in three seconds, I’ll follow.”

Joy’s “three seconds” soon elapsed, and the plebe made good his word by boldly scaling the wall. This he did by propping a piece of wood against the brick barrier, thus gaining the ironwork at the top.

Dropping lightly upon the soft earth on the other side, he started across the grounds.

He had barely taken a dozen steps when there came through the night air a crash of splintering glass, then a scream of terror.

A moment of breathless silence, then a hoarse murmuring of excited voices, interspersed by occasional shouts. By that time Joy, armed with a stout stick, was bounding in the direction of the uproar.

The intense blackness of the night had given way to a subdued light from the rising moon, whose silvery rim was even then showing above the city.

Suddenly, outlined in this faint illumination, Joy saw the figure of a man dash away from the house.

As the plebe turned to follow, shouting at the top of his voice, another figure rose up in front of the fugitive and grappled with him.

The two were struggling fiercely when Joy reached the spot. There was light enough for him to recognize in one of the combatants his chum, Clif.

That was enough for the brave lad. Calling out encouragingly, he sprang upon the back of the other.

The cadets found their hands full. The stranger fought like one possessed. He bit and kicked and rained blows upon his antagonists, but they clung to him with unswerving courage until he at last sank to the ground exhausted.

“Bring a rope here, quick!” gasped Clif, as Mr. Windom, accompanied by a number of servants, ran up. “Bring a rope to tie this fellow. We’ve got a prize.”

“My pearls, my pearls!” wailed the old merchant, wringing his hands. “They are gone. I tried to save them, but the robber——”

“We’ve got the robber all right,” interrupted Clif, cheerily. “And there are your pearls over yonder.”

He inclined his head toward an indistinct object lying upon the path. Mr. Windom snatched it up with a cry of joy. It was a bag containing his priceless collection.

The servants returned with a rope and several lanterns. Several of the men assisted the cadets to bind the prisoner, then he was turned over with his face to the light.

Cries of amazement came from all save Clif.

“Great guns!” gasped Joy, “it’s the Englishman! It’s J. Chesire-Cheshire Cate!”

“The would-be assassin!” cried Clif. “Seize him!”

There was a desperate struggle, in the midst of which several neighbors and two mounted policemen arrived.

It was decided not to reveal the identity of the prisoner, for this would have aroused the citizens to the fury of a lawless mob.

So the would-be assassin was locked up as a common burglar.

From Juanita, Clif and Joy learned that it was she who had discovered the presence of the Englishman. She had gone into the library for something, after her father had retired, and had been just in time to see a strange man tiptoeing from her father’s apartments.

She screamed, and the intruder made a dash for the nearest window, and leaped boldly through the sash. It was plain the desperate man had worked quickly.

Clif explained the arousing of his suspicions by the broken tree branch, then he and Joy took their departure.

It was long after midnight before they reached the ship, and they had already been marked in the log as “absent without leave.”

Clif’s story speedily caused the erasing of the entry, and on every hand he and Joy were hailed as heroes of the first water.

The authorities failed to get any account from Cate of how he had escaped from the river. The man was locked up in a dungeon, and there remained a long time.

During the balance of the stay at Lisbon, Clif was made a social lion to such an extent that he was glad when the announcement came that the training ship would up anchor and away for the island of Madeira. Clif hated to part with Juanita, but she promised to write often, and with this he had to be content.

As the gallant old Monongahela left the port of Lisbon, all the river craft saluted her with a prodigious din of whistles and cannon shots. It was a time never to be forgotten, and it must be admitted that the plebes enjoyed it immensely.

Transcriber’s Note:

Obvious typographic errors have been corrected.

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Table of Contents

- THE CRUISE OF THE TRAINING SHIP

- CONTENTS

- CHAPTER I. NANNY IN TROUBLE.

- CHAPTER II. CLIF ON A SCOUT.

- CHAPTER III. TURNING THE TABLES.

- CHAPTER IV. MORE HAZING.

- CHAPTER V. NANNY SENDS A MESSAGE.

- CHAPTER VI. THE FIGHT.

- CHAPTER VII. A HAIL IN THE NIGHT.

- CHAPTER VIII. THE MYSTERIOUS SHIP.

- CHAPTER IX. THE FIGHT ON THE DERELICT.

- CHAPTER X. SAIL DRILL AT SEA.

- CHAPTER XI. TALKING IT OVER.

- CHAPTER XII. JUDSON RECEIVES A SETBACK.

- CHAPTER XIII. PREPARING FOR THE ENTERTAINMENT.

- CHAPTER XIV. THE MINSTREL SHOW.

- CHAPTER XV. THE NIGHT DRILL.

- CHAPTER XVI. FRIENDS IN ADVERSITY.

- CHAPTER XVII. A WELCOME FIND.

- CHAPTER XVIII. JUDSON GREENE’S TREACHERY.

- CHAPTER XIX. THE MYSTERY SOLVED.

- CHAPTER XX. DIVING FOR REWARDS.

- CHAPTER XXI. THE CONSPIRACY.

- CHAPTER XXII. AND THEN SILENCE!

- CHAPTER XXIII. “CUTTER AHOY!”

- CHAPTER XXIV. THE ENGLISHMAN WITH A “HAW!”

- CHAPTER XXV. SAVING A KING.

- CHAPTER XXVI. AUDIENCE WITH A KING.

- CHAPTER XXVII. THE BROKEN TREE BRANCH.

- CHAPTER XXVIII. THE MIDNIGHT MARAUDER.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE