CHAPTER VI

THE GLOW-WORM OF THE SEA

Out upon the tossing sea once more. It was a wonder that the “Logan” did not sit much deeper in the water, for she carried a most unusual load of ammunition of every useful kind.

Out upon the sea, and seemingly alone at that. Not a sail was visible to the officers on the taut little destroyer, not a trail of smoke appeared on any part of the horizon. Indeed, the present speed and low fuel consumption aboard the “Logan” allowed only the thinnest wisps of smoke to issue from the raking funnels of the destroyer.

Had Dave needed other destroyer company, for any urgent reason, a signal snapping from his radio aerials would bring one, perhaps two, American destroyers to him within an hour. For some of these bulldog little fighting craft, that were out after the deep-sea pests, were capable of making more than thirty knots an hour.

The “Logan” had been out four days. Though headed westward at this moment, she had not been moving steadily westward, for she was now not more than three hundred and thirty miles west of the coast of Ireland.

On this fourth day, as on its predecessors, the destroyer steamed along at cruising speed. Though the crew knew nothing of Germany’s proposed big submarine drive directed at the troopships conveying the One Hundred and Seventeenth Division, yet every marine and sailor felt that something unusual was in the wind. The lookouts had been instructed to aid their vision by the free use of their marine glasses and precautions out of the ordinary had been taken in other directions.

“The Germans are using a new submarine periscope, slimmer than any that they have heretofore employed. They hoist it for only a few seconds at a time and do not send it as far out of the water as they did with the old style periscope. The man who sights a periscope in time will save our ship.”

That was the word constantly passed about by the “Logan’s” officers. Every sailor hoped that he might be the lucky one to discover a periscope in time to lead to the bombing of one of the pests.

Dave had reached the bridge at seven bells. Dalzell was now below, sleeping as soundly as though he were back in the old home town of Gridley. Lieutenant Curtin was on the bridge watch.

“It’s odd, Mr. Curtin, that we haven’t sighted a submarine in four days; that we haven’t had the slightest visible reason to suspect the presence of one,” Dave remarked to his subordinate officer.

“Very likely, sir, we’re too far out,” Curtin replied.

“Yet we have every reason to believe that they’ve extended the danger zone further westward,” Darrin continued.

“That’s the belief of the fleet commander,” Curtin answered, “but there’s always a chance of his having guessed wrong. Why isn’t it just as probable,” he added, in a much lower tone, “that the Huns have decided to have a try at the troopship fleet fairly close to land?”

“It wouldn’t be likely,” Dave went on, in an equally low tone. “For one thing, Mr. Curtin, the enemy would want their first try farther out. Then, if they missed, they’d have another chance, perhaps, closer to land.”

“If they missed on their first try, the Huns would have to run their submersibles on the surface in order to overtake the troopship fleet for another chance. They couldn’t travel under water and overtake the troopship fleet.”

“Quite right,” Darrin admitted in a whisper. “Still, I see another answer to the problem. Of the sixty submersibles believed to be on the job twenty may have been sent far to the westward, the other forty remaining nearer to the coast. The twenty submarines could make a desperate try. Then, if they failed, the remaining forty could take up the job closer to shore.”

“Then you don’t believe all the German submarines engaged are concentrated at one point, sir?”

“Impossible to say,” Darrin rejoined. “I don’t like to form opinions on any subject without facts to go on.”

“It’s strange; not a steamer sighted today,” Lieutenant Curtin resumed, after a few moments’ scanning of the sea. “During our first three days out we met plenty of armed freighters. Today, not a sail or a stack sighted. Can it be that the subs are further west, and that they’ve overhauled and sunk several freighters?”

“We’ve heard no appeals for help. Every freighter carries wireless apparatus in these days,” Dave argued.

“True, but sometimes the torpedo shock puts a ship’s radio out of commission from the moment of impact.”

“I do not believe that the freighters are being bothered,” Dave announced. “Granted that there are undoubtedly subs enough in these waters to raise the mischief with cargo steamers. If the subs didn’t have the luck to silence the wireless outfits on the cargo steamers at the first shot, there would be chance of word reaching the troopships of unusual danger, and that would lead to redoubled vigilance on the part of the destroyer escorts. My belief, Mr. Curtin, is that the cargo boats will have a rest until the fate of the troopship fleet has been decided.”

“Then you believe, sir, that the absence of cargo boats today is due to——”

“Probably due to the fact that there was one slack day in clearing cargo boats at American ports, and also because of an equally slack day in British ports.”

Then fell silence. Both drowsy, despite their realization of the need of keeping awake and on the alert, both young officers moved about on the bridge, ever maintaining a sharp lookout.

They were still pacing back and forth when the sun went down below the horizon toward the distant United States. Lieutenant Beatty, fresh from a sleep, came up on the bridge, saluting his commander.

“Mr. Beatty, you’ve no other duty at present,” Darrin greeted him. “Will you do an extra bit and remain on the bridge with Curtin?”

“I’ll be very glad to, sir, for I’m feeling fit after my sleep,” replied the lieutenant, heartily.

“I’m going below for a brief doze in my chair. If I’m wanted, call down to some one to rouse me. I’ll sleep for an hour or so. But be sure, Mr. Curtin, to see to it that I’m called if anything happens, no matter how slight an occurrence it may seem to be.”

“Very good, sir,” from the smiling Curtin.

“And glad I am to give the ‘Old Man’ a bit of a relief,” quoth Beatty to his brother officer. “I never knew a commander before who spent so much of his time on deck or bridge, except in a gale. Mr. Darrin doesn’t appear to think that he needs more than a third as much sleep as other persons require.”

“He told me to call him in an hour or so,” grinned Lieutenant Curtin. “Unless something turns up his instructions will allow me to let him doze at least two hours.”

No sooner had Darrin doffed cap and sheepskin and settled back in his chair than his eyes closed and he was cruising in the Land of Nod.

Nor did he stir enough to wake until an orderly, sent from the bridge, entered and shook his right arm.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the sailor. “The officer of the deck wants to know if you wish to be called now.”

“In another hour,” said Darrin, drowsily, and dozed off again.

Which message was received with high glee by the two conspirators for Dave’s comfort when they received the news on the bridge.

“Only one drawback to it, Curtin,” said Beatty. “When the ‘Old Man’ finally wakes he’ll imagine he can stand watch for twenty-four hours without more sleep.”

“Maybe, by that time, he’ll have to,” retorted Curtin. “So we’ll let him gather in all the rest that he can get now.”

And Darrin slept that added hour. When called the next time he rose straight to his feet.

“It was stupid of me not to wake an hour ago,” Dave reproached himself, after glancing at the clock over the desk. “But just look at dear old Danny-boy! He’s slept nearly twice as long as I have. If things remain dull this evening I won’t have him called, either. He needs the rest, poor old chap!”

Donning cap and short coat the youthful commander went out on deck and then started on a tour of inspection. Presently he neared the stern just in time to see one of the two stern lookouts leap upon the other and bear the latter to the deck. The assailant gripped his victim around the throat, administering a severe choking.

“No, you don’t!” yelled the upper man. “I caught you that time, and I’ll bet you’ve done it before. Marine guard, here——stern watch!”

A midship lookout passed the word, but Dave darted forward out of the shadows.

“Get up, Ferguson,” Darrin commanded. “Back to your post. You’ve no right to take your eyes away from your particular work. Get up, Jordan.”

The latter, the sailor who had been attacked, rose to his feet, sullenly rubbing his throat.

“Ferguson, why did you attack Jordan?” Dave demanded.

“Look astern, sir!” Seaman Ferguson replied, pointing to the wake of the destroyer. “Do you see that gleam on the water, sir? It’s something that Jordan dropped overboard. It’s some tricky, dirty work, sir, or I’ll eat my guess. I’ve known since last night, sir, that Jordan was tricky. He tried to get me to look another way to-night, but out of the corner of one eye I saw him drop something overboard—and then that thing in our wake began to gleam.”

By this time the solitary marine guard on deck duty had arrived aft. Beholding the commanding officer, the sea-soldier saluted and stood at attention.

“My man,” Dave ordered, “take my compliments to Lieutenant Curtin and my instructions that he is to make a careful turn and try to go back through our wake. He is to be very exact about going over the very wake of this craft. The message delivered, report back here.”

Jordan, who had turned deathly pale, glanced about him as if meditating some foolish flight.

“Now, Jordan,” Dave began, taking the young sailor firmly by the arm, “what was it you threw overboard?”

“A—a—” began the accused one.

“Yes, come out with it,” Darrin commanded.

“I didn’t throw anything overboard, sir. Ferguson is a liar.”

Whereupon Seaman Ferguson, though he still kept his eyes turned in the direction imposed by his watch duties, clenched both fists hard.

“It won’t do you any good to deny, Jordan,” Dave insisted. “We’re going back and find that—whatever it was that you threw overboard. Better tell me now!”

As if to confirm his words the “Logan” began to turn in a half circle. At the same time the marine returned.

“Take Jordan below. See that he’s searched and then confined in the brig,” Dave directed.

With infinite care the “Logan” sought her recent wake. It was no simple task on such a night, when the new moon had already set. And, travelling at such easy speed, the “Logan” had not stirred up anything like the foamy, suds-like wake that trailed after her when she steamed at fighting speed.

By the time the turn was made the glowing object that Ferguson had pointed out was no longer visible. Carefully the destroyer picked her way back. They were a bit out of the straight line, though, as Darrin presently found reason to believe, for a tiny glow, looking like a point of dim light in the near distance, was finally sighted about three points off the port bow.

“Two points to port,” Dave passed the word. He was now well up forward of the bridge, watching the surface of the ocean intently. “Steady! Stop!... Half speed astern.... Stop!”

The glowing object was now in plain sight as it tossed on the swells. Darrin gave the order to lower a cutter, instructing Ensign Phelps to go along and haul in that glowing object.

There was no need to watch it from the “Logan.” Mr. Phelps, from the cutter, could make it out distinctly. Soon he reached it, a seaman bending over the side and picking up the object.

“Pass it to me at once,” directed the ensign, and an instant later took possession of it. By the time the boat had been hoisted to the davits Mr. Phelps leaped down to the deck and joined his commander.

“Did you observe, sir? This thing glowed, while in the water,” declared the ensign, holding up a bottle of about a pint capacity, tightly closed with a rubber stopper. “Yet when I got it in out of the water it stopped glowing, and looked as dull and dark as it does now. I believe it’s coated with a transparent substance that glows only when the thing is in the water. Have I your permission, sir, to drop it in a fire bucket and see?”

“Go ahead,” Dave assented.

Phelps walked to a near-by fire bucket and thrust the bottle in the water. At first nothing happened. After a few seconds, however, the bottle began to glow dimly, then gradually increased in brightness until it became clear and mellow.

“That’s enough for that,” Darrin nodded. “Now bring it into the chart-room, Mr. Phelps, and we’ll look it over.”

Their entrance awoke Dalzell, who stretched, then sprang up.

Dave hastily explained to his chum what had happened, at the same time going to the desk and turning on a stronger electric light.

Holding the bottle up against the light, Dave was able to make out what looked like a folded piece of paper in it, nothing else.

“At all events,” smiled Dave, as he seated himself before the desk and glanced through the bottle glass, “I do not see any reason to believe that I shall set off any explosive by drawing out the rubber stopper.”

Nothing disastrous happened as the stopper was withdrawn. Holding the bottle up to the light once more, peering through the neck, Darrin saw that it contained only the folded paper. Careful work with a penholder consumed five minutes of time before the paper was pried out, whole.

Dave spread it on the desk before him,

“Phelps, you read German better than I do, I believe.”

“I can make a stagger at it, sir.”

“Look this through and translate for me,” Darrin requested.

Slowly, and with a good deal of care, Phelps translated in these words:

“U. S. Destroyer ‘Logan.’ 8.15 P. M. (Date) Longitude ——; latitude ——. Course, west by southwest. Carries three times usual amount of ammunition. Speed, eight knots.”

The actual date was given; longitude and latitude were correct enough.

When Phelps had finished reading Dave Darrin leaned back in his chair, pain expressed in his face and eyes.

“A traitor on board! An American on this craft who has sold himself to the Huns! In the name of mercy how can such a thing be?”