“You’re wanted aft.”

The word came to Ned the next day as he lay, feeling rather dizzy and light-headed, in his hammock. There is no sick bay on a destroyer, and so special leave had been granted him to have his hammock slung during the daytime.

The Dreadnought Boy had been the only one of the boat’s crew injured in the onslaught of the mighty wave. Strong arms had pulled the rest to safety without injury. Ned, however, had been caught in the wreckage and badly bruised. As the parting of a light line released him from the tangle of the smashed boat, he had been flung head first against the Beale’s quarter.

“The commander added,—that is, if you feel well enough to come,” amended the messenger.

“Ask his indulgence for a few minutes till I[56] get my sea legs, will you?” laughed Ned. “I feel mighty queer and shaky.”

At this moment Herc, who had been released from his duties on deck to see how his chum was faring, came below. With the red-headed lad’s assistance, Ned was soon ready for his visit aft. He found that the salty blast of fresh air which struck him in the face as he emerged from the crew’s quarters was as good as a tonic. The gale had blown itself out. Overhead was stretched a clean-swept, blue sky, while about them a bright sea, crested with sparkling whitecaps, raced along. Through it the Beale was plunging her way south at a good rate of speed, the black smoke pouring from her funnels and encrusting her after deck with a crunching carpet of cinders.

“Well, my lad, how are you feeling to-day?” asked Lieutenant Timmons, as Ned entered the cabin, cap in hand, and, after saluting, stood respectfully at attention.

Ned assured his superior that he was suffering no ill consequences. Whereupon Lieutenant[57] Timmons called forward a young officer, whom Ned had not previously noticed.

“Here, Stark,” he said, “is the man you have to thank for your being here to-day.”

“And I do most heartily!” exclaimed the middy, stepping forward with outstretched hand. “I don’t know how to word it, Strong, but I hope you know how I feel.”

Ned nodded, rather embarrassed.

“That’s all right, sir,” he said. The boy had supposed that this concluded the interview, but in this he was mistaken. Fingering some papers which lay on his desk Lieutenant Timmons went on.

“I am especially glad that your officer and you have this bond between you, Strong, for this reason:—when we reach our destination,—which you may, or may not know?——”

Ned nodded to show that he was aware of the objective point of the voyage.

“When we reach Costaveza, I say, I have some special duty outlined, which I have already explained to Mr. Stark. He will command such[58] men as he thinks he requires to assist him. I do not think, and he shares my opinion, that he could make a better choice than you and your companion, Hercules Taylor.”

“Of course, we’ll do our best, sir,” said Ned simply, though his heart was beating high at the distinction which his commander was conferring on the Dreadnought Boys.

“I know you will, Strong,” said his superior crisply, “and that is why I selected you for the duty. There is no need to explain it in its details, which will largely be governed by the conditions we may find existing in the republic. Of course, from reading the papers, you are familiar with the fact that there is a revolution there, which is antagonistic in the extreme to American interests.”

“Yes, sir,” rejoined Ned, debating within himself whether he would tell his commander about the dark-skinned man outside the navy yard. He finally decided not to, deeming it the wisest course not to speak on such an indefinite subject.

“Very well, Strong, you may go. You and[59] Seaman Taylor will be notified when you are wanted.”

Ned clicked his heels together, placed his hand to his bandaged head, and left the cabin. As he walked forward the last vestige of his dizziness was gone. He felt capable of tackling a whole ship’s company single-handed. As soon as he found an opportunity he related what had passed in the commander’s cabin to his chum. Herc was as overjoyed as his companion at the opportunity that appeared to be held out to the Dreadnought Boys for distinguishing themselves.

“At this rate, we’ll be admirals before long,” chortled Herc.

“You’ll have to get some of those freckles off your face first, then, and——”

He broke off abruptly, as he suddenly became aware that their conversation must have been audible to a man who was reposing in the sun on the other side of the cowl ventilator, in the shelter of which they had been talking. It was the smoke hour after dinner, and many men were[60] lolling about the decks, but neither of the boys had noticed this particular fellow.

“What did you stop so suddenly for?” began Herc, with a blank look, but Ned cut him short.

“Hush,” he whispered, “don’t say any more. After all, he may be asleep.”

“Well, what on earth——”

“Come on and take a turn, Herc.”

Ned forcibly raised his chum to his feet and walked forward with him. Then they turned aft once more. They chose the other side of the Beale, however, so as to get a good view of the figure that Ned had spied on the other side of the ventilator. But in the brief interval they had had their backs turned the man had gone.

“That confirms my suspicions,” said Ned.

“Suspicions of what?”

“That that fellow was there for no good purpose. He was crouching down to hear what we had to say. He must have come up softly after we were seated.”

“Well, he didn’t hear anything that was very important.”
 

“No,” admitted Ned, “unless——”

“Well, unless what? You’re the most suspicious chap I ever saw.”

“I was going to say that I am almost positive that that fellow was the fireman we noticed eying us so curiously the day we left the yard.”

“Even so. Aren’t you making a mountain out of a mole hill, or a battleship out of a dinghy?”

“I’m not so sure of that,” responded Ned slowly, and with an air of thoughtfulness, “something about that chap roused my suspicions that he was watching us for no good purpose.”

“Well, there wasn’t much nourishment in what we said, even if he is what you suspect him to be.”

“Humph! he heard that we are to be Midshipman Stark’s assistants in secret duty, didn’t he?”

“Well?”

“Well, it may be of the highest importance that no one should know that but ourselves and our officers. I’d like to kick myself overboard for not looking round before we started talking.”

At this moment Stanley, the man who had[62] handled the bow oar in the boat the night before, came up to them. With him were the other volunteers of that heroic venture. In discussing the details of it and “fighting the battle o’er again,” the Dreadnought Boys speedily forgot the incident which had for an instant cast a cloud over Ned’s good humor.

Three more days of steady steaming brought the Beale within the tropics. It was delightful to the boys to be once more in Caribbean waters. The blue sea rippled by. Only a gentle swell made a pleasing contrast after the terrific “tumblefication” the Beale had been through on her way down the coast.

Awnings now made their appearance, and meals could be eaten without, as Herc expressed it, “hanging on with your toe nails.” White uniforms were the order of the day, and very natty the jackies and officers looked in their snowy regalia.

One morning, soon after they entered the “gulf-weed belt,” as sailormen call it, the crew was busy at brass work and in patching up the[63] numerous small damages sustained by the destroyer in her rough experience off the American coast. The scene of activity was abruptly halted soon after five bells by a sudden cry of:

“Wreck ahead!”

The hail thrilled everybody. It meant a break in the monotony, and possible adventure.

“Where away?” was the hail from the small bridge forward of the conning tower, on which Ensign Conkling was on duty.

The next minute the officer’s glasses were eagerly scanning the glistening sea in the direction in which the lookout had indicated the wreck. A brief consultation followed. Ned, whose duty took him near the conning tower, heard Lieutenant Timmons remark to Ensign Conkling:

“She’s a distinct menace to navigation, and would be much better out of the way.”

“I agree with you, sir,” agreed the ensign. “Shall I change the course?”

“You had better do so, if you please. We are too far south for any of the regular derelict destroyers[64] to happen along, so it becomes our duty to put her out of the way.”

The Beale’s course was changed. She was headed up toward the derelict, which speedily became visible to the naked eye as a low-lying hulk, with the stumps of three masts sticking up from her clean-swept decks. Few objects equal in melancholy suggestion a derelict met with in mid-ocean. The sight of a craft which once gallantly bore human beings, with their hopes and aspirations, now miserably tumbled about by every passing breeze or wave, invariably affects a sailor depressingly.

As the Beale drew closer there was not much conversation among the men. Such as there was, was carried on in low tones.

“She’ll have been a barque,” remarked Stanley, who was himself an old blue-water man, and who stood alongside the boys. “See those three stumps. An old-timer, too, judging by that deck house right aft of her foremast.”

The derelict was, indeed, a battered relic of the seas. Green weeds could be seen clinging thickly[65] to her underhull as she dipped slowly and lazily on the swell. Ragged, bleached ends of ropes hung over her side like the rags on a beggar. It was evidently some time since she had been abandoned. So far as her timbers went, however, she was, to all seeming, still seaworthy, as her large amount of free-board showed.

“What are we going to do?” Herc asked curiously, as the Beale ranged up alongside at a distance of two hundred yards or so.

“I imagine that we are going to blow her up,” rejoined Ned.

“That’s it,” put in Stanley. “She’ll make a fine target, too.”

“As good a one as I did once,” grinned Herc, reminded of the occasion on which he had almost served as a human mark at target practice. Both boys laughed at the recollection.

“Come on, you Strong, and you Taylor and Stanley, I want you,” said a petty officer, coming forward. “The ensign is going to be put aboard that old craft to see if there’s anything on her of value before we blow her to Davy Jones.”
 
This task just suited the boys. The derelict had already excited their interest. To have a chance of setting foot on her was just what they desired. The other men watched them with envy, as one of the remaining boats carried by the Beale was launched, and the ensign took his place in the stern sheets.

As may be imagined, the oarsmen gave way with a will, and were soon at the side of the abandoned craft. To board her, however, they had to row round her stern, which was square and ugly, and bore on it in faded white letters the name Donna Mercedes.

“A dago, eh?” commented Stanley, in low tone, for he did not wish the officer to hear him talking, which would have been a breach of discipline.

“Ease all!” shouted the ensign at the same instant. He had sighted a place where the breaking away of the mast had smashed a bulwark, and at which it would be an easy matter to board the derelict.

“You men may come aboard if you want to,”[67] he said, as he sprang nimbly upward on to the moldering deck. “Leave one of your number to guard the boat, though.”

“You fellows go,” said Stanley. “I’d rather sit here in the shade and have a smoke.”

Nothing loath, the Dreadnought Boys quickly followed the ensign, little dreaming what consequences their visit was to have for them in the immediate future.