CHAPTER XXVII.

THE CRUISER AMERICA.

“Jack, Mr. Ricker wants to see you,” is the information extended to Ashley when he reaches the office. He reports at the room of the city editor, and that gentleman informs him that he has not arrived any too soon.

“I know that I am an hour or so behind, but I have been working up a story that will make interesting reading,” Ashley explains. “What’s up? My trial-trip assignment isn’t until 3, is it?”

“The start was set for 3, but it has been pushed forward to 1 o’clock,” says Ricker.

“It is about noon now. I may as well start for Brooklyn at once. Good, snappy day for a run down the bay.

“Thunder!” says Ashley, when he reaches the street. “I had forgotten that I was booked for a consolatory lunch with Miss Hathaway at 1. I must send my regrets. Hang it, that will look as if I was on to the arrest and was afraid to show up.”

But he sends the note, nevertheless, and feels better in mind. “If that cold-blooded Barker only handles the matter properly,” he thinks.

Even as he reaches the Government dock Jack sees the pennant of Capt. Meade run up to the main truck of the cruiser whose initial trial in commission he is to report; he is none too soon for the gang-plank is being withdrawn by half a score of blue-clad sailors as he makes a flying leap and lands upon the deck of the newest and fastest acquisition to Uncle Sam’s navy, the cruiser America.

Ere Jack has fully recovered his footing a youthful-appearing midshipman brusquely demands his business.

It takes sometime before Jack is permitted to tread the sacred precincts of the quarter-deck.

Capt. Meade is for the time being on the bridge, and, before making the acquaintance of the commander, Jack proceeds to look about the vessel.

The America has an air of being a ship made for getting there; an up-to-date cruiser, without frills and furbelows, but distinctively with an aspect of power. In the bright sunlight her snowy hull gleams like polished marble. Her four great smokestacks relieve in a measure the glaring effect of her big white bulk, while the polished brass and steel with which all the decks are gird-ironed suggest, without the presence of the murderous rapid-fire and revolving cannon stationed about the decks, that the vessel is designed for war.

Ashley is soon engaged in the collection of information regarding the America for the benefit of Hemisphere readers. The cruiser is, the second officer informs him, of over 7,000 tons displacement. Her battery comprises two six-inch, 40-caliber rapid-fire guns, one on each side, forward of the superstructure; one eight-inch, 40-caliber on the center line, abaft the superstructure; eight four-inch rapid-fire guns in armored sponsons on the gundeck, four on each side; six-pounder rapid-fire guns, four-pounders, one-pounders, Gatlings and torpedo tubes galore.

“There are three vertical, triple-expansion engines, each set driving a separate screw. The propellers are of manganese bronze and the—”

“Thank you, that is sufficient, I guess,” interrupts Jack. “The Hemisphere readers will have a very good idea of the offensive and defensive power of the America now, I am sure.”

The cruiser is slowly backing out into the stream. There is a big throng on the pier to watch her departure, and a whole battery of cameras are leveled as she finally swings around.

Now the ship becomes indeed instinct with life and is pointing down the bay with a speed that augurs well for the shattering of records. The whistles of all the craft in sight screech a salute and the America’s hoarse whistle bellows responsively. Past the Battery and Governor’s Island she speeds and then, fairly by quarantine, the patent log is cast into the foamy wake and Capt. Meade rings “full speed.”

The speed trial of the America has actually begun.

Jack is idly watching the rapidly receding island, when he becomes aware by the slight bustle on the quarterdeck that the commander of the America has returned from the bridge.

Capt. Meade, or “Fighting Dave,” as he is affectionately designated in naval circles, is a man of about 60 years, but forty-five years of his eventful career have been spent in the navy. He has worked himself up, without political or social influence, from apprentice boy to commander of the newest and best cruiser in the United States.

Jack has heard of “Fighting Dave,” and he scans the famous naval officer with much interest. A figure slightly below the average, but stockily built; a cheerful visage, face weather-beaten and innocent of beard, surmounted by a shock of grizzly hair; eyes whose keen expression might well belie the jovial look upon the face—this is Capt. David Meade, U.S.N.

“Good face,” thinks Ashley, as he completes his scrutiny. “I should like to know Capt. Meade personally, and I will.”

With his customary assurance and easy grace Ashley approaches the autocrat of the quarterdeck and tenders his card.

Capt. Meade glances at the pasteboard and then his keen eyes wander to the newspaper man. Apparently the scrutiny is satisfactory, for the bronzed face wrinkles into the most benign of smiles and a tremendous fist grasps Jack’s right hand with a grip which causes him to mentally question his ability to write up the trial trip, or anything else, for a week at least.

“So you are from the Hemisphere?” Capt. Meade observes. “Well, I like that paper and one of its representatives is heartily welcome to my ship. In these days of sentiment and gush and peace and good-will and brotherly love, and so forth, and so forth, it does my heart good to get hold of a paper which isn’t afraid nor ashamed to speak right out in meetin’ for the land we live in and the flag that floats above it. But come below, Mr. Ashley, and we’ll clinch the sentiment with a toast.” And the captain leads the way to his sumptuous quarters, where the “splicing of the main brace” is accomplished with alacrity and vigor by commander and newspaper man.

“Well, what do you think of the America?” asks the captain. “Did you ever see anything like that on a vessel going over twenty knots an hour?” setting his glass, filled to the brim, on the table. The surface of the liquid is scarce more ruffled than that of a mirror. “No sign of vibration, eh? She stands up as steady as a house.”

Jack is really surprised as he considers the circumstances. “From what little I have seen of her I should say she is a remarkable craft and one that Uncle Sam should feel proud of,” he replies.

“Remarkable? She’s a wonder! Why, she can walk away from anything that floats—anything, big or little, torpedo catchers or stilettos. I was on her when her first trial trip with the builders aboard took place, and while she made twenty-five knots then, she can do better. And she is going to do it to-day. Before we reach Sandy Hook, young man, you can just put it down in your log-book that the American flag is being borne over the water faster than any other flag is likely to be carried for some time. One more splice and then we’ll show you how the trick is done.”

As the captain and his guest return to the quarterdeck of the cruiser it is apparent that something unusual is attracting the attention of officers and crew. Those who are not actively engaged in the manipulation of the cruiser are gathered at the port rail watching intently a steamer that is running parallel with the America, about an eighth of a mile distant and about three lengths astern.

“What is it, Mr. Jones?” inquires Capt. Meade of the third officer, who has just removed the binocular glasses from his eyes.

“A strange craft, sir, evidently a yacht which is apparently using the America as a pacemaker. She pulled up astern of us fifteen minutes ago, and has since been steadily gaining. Very fast, sir, I should say, but she bears no ensign or pennant of any kind.”

Capt. Meade takes the glasses from the hands of his subaltern and looks long and critically at the strange vessel. She is nearly the same length as the America, though manifestly of considerable less tonnage. And she is painted black, without a bit of gay color from stem to stern to relieve the somberness of her hull.

Two black smokestacks, that appear unusually large and are set at a decidedly rakish angle, are relieved by two narrow bands of white. Capt. Meade with a seaman’s appreciative eye admires the shapely lines of the yacht, but as his practiced vision notices the comparative ease with which she is creeping up on the America his jovial face becomes slightly troubled.

“Mr. Jones, have the log taken and work out our speed at once,” he orders.

“Twenty-four and a quarter knots,” is the report.

For the next ten minutes the captain watches intently the strange yacht. Her course is apparently shaped precisely parallel with that of the America, and she still continues to gain, inch by inch, upon the white cruiser. Now she is amidships, and now the two vessels are on even terms.

A puff of white steam rises abaft the stranger’s big smokestacks, and a long shrill whistle salutes the cruiser.

’Tis a challenge for a race and it stirs Capt. Meade’s blood to fever heat. He sends for the chief engineer.

“How is the machinery working?” he inquires.

“Finely, sir; not the sign of the slightest trouble anywhere.”

“Very well, sir; we will begin now to push her for a record. Put on every ounce of steam she will stand, first with natural and afterward with forced draught.”

The chief engineer salutes, and returns to his domain, and a second later the hoarse whistle of the America sounds a defiant acceptance of the challenge of the black yacht.