Hancock Harrie Irving - Dave Darrin and the German Submarines. Or, Making a Clean-up of the Hun Sea Monsters стр 26.

Back came Captain Rhodes answer within a minute:

No accurate figures at hand. Believe enemy numbered something like thirty craft. Extreme vigilance needed until we reach port.

There you are, Dave said, when the signal had been read. Take command, Mr. Dalzell, and be the sharpest little sailor on the ocean. Im going below on another matter.

Once at his desk in the chart-room Dave sent for Seaman Ferguson.

Does Seaman Jordan smoke cigarettes? asked Darrin.

Yes, sir.

Is he really addicted to them? Dave continued.

Is he, sir? exclaimed Ferguson. Then: Pardon me, sir, for answering like that. Jordan smokes his head off when he can get the chance and has enough of the pesky things.

Thank you, Dave nodded. That is all, except the caution to say nothing to any one about my question. Send Reardon here.

Big, red-faced, with huge hands, a deeply bronzed skin and a sly, merry twinkle in his eyes, Reardon was a sailor of the best type. Dave knew the mans loyalty and shrewdness, as well as Reardons great faculty for holding his tongue at need.

Reardon, directed Dave, place a chair here at the desk and write a note at my dictation with this pencil.

Aye, aye, sir! Ready, announced Reardon, taking his seat and picking up the pencil in his big right hand.

Write this, said Dave. Sorry for you. Looks like you got a raw deal. Ill be glad to help you, if you want cigarettes or anything. Dont nod or speak to me, but wait for your chance to slip this paper back to me. Write on it what youd like.

Now, Darrin resumed, as the sailor looked up, go below and stand where the guard at the brig can see you, but dont let your shoes make enough noise for Jordan, whos in the brig, to hear you. Signal to the guard to stroll slowly in your direction. When he reaches you tell him that you are ordered by me to slip a note to Jordan, but that the guard is not to mention the fact to any one. Tell the guard, from me, to stand so as to give you a chance to slip the note. Then, twenty minutes later, you are to get down there again and give Jordan a chance to hand you his reply. Slip this pencil in with the note.

Aye, aye, sir.

Not even his eyes expressing any question or curiosity, Reardon left the chart-room. Going below he stepped into the passage-way that led to the brig. Cat-footed he walked along until he caught the eye of the marine guard. From the point where he halted Reardon was not visible to any one standing at the grated steel door of the little, cell-like brig in which serious offenders against discipline were confined until tried or released.

Reardons first signal was to place a warning finger over his lips. Then he brought his hand up to a smart salute, next pointing above, which the marine at once understood to mean that Reardon was there on an errand for some officer. Next by stepping softly, and motioning with his hand to the floor, and then to his own position, he signified that he wished the marine to come to him.

No fool was Fitch, private in the Marine Corps, which contains

few if any fools. So well did he understand that the occupant of the brig had no suspicion that his guard was looking at any one beyond. Then Private Fitch took a few turns in the passageway, after which, yawning slightly, and humming softly to himself, he strolled along the passageway until he reached the big sailor.

Ive orders from Lieutenant-Commander Darrin to slip a note and a pencil to Jordan in the brig, whispered Reardon. Youre not to see me. Bye and bye youre to give Jordan a chance to write an answer, which Ill come back and get.

Lieutenant-Commander Darrins orders, eh? whispered the marine, eyeing the big sailor keenly.

Which the lieutenant commander gave me himself, nodded Reardon. And youre not to say anything about the matter.

Go ahead, when youre ready, nodded Private Fitch, turning and strolling back.

A full two minutes Reardon waited. Then, making no further effort to walk softly, the big fellow stepped down the passage way.

Looking for a berth in the brig? asked Fitch, jocosely.

Now, why should I? demanded Reardon. And me a good conduct man. Tis more likely youll get a place there yourself.

Not me, returned the marine. There are only six of us and a corporal on board, and were all needed. You know, Reardon, marines are important people, since one marine is the fighting equal of three sailors.

Is it so, now? demanded Reardon, in an amused tone, as he halted before the brig door. What time did ye get up this morning, Mister Fitch?

Pacing the floor behind the barred door with the restless step of a caged animal, Seaman Jordan only scowled at the bantering pair. But Reardon had halted with his back close to the steel bars. In one hand behind him was a pencil with a scrap of paper folded around it.

Jordan hesitated. He was afraid of some trap, but his position was desperate. He was accused of treason. Perhaps this big sailor was a friend in need. After a moment or two of hesitation, Jordan prolonged his walk until it brought him close to the bars. Then, while Private Fitch was glancing down at the lock of his rifle, Jordan stealthily grasped note and paper and dropped them in a pocket.