Reaching the inside of the conning tower at a bound, the young skipper rapidly manipulated his own electric signaling control. There was a low mast on the “Farnum’s” platform deck, a mast that could be unstepped almost in an instant when going below surface. So Captain Jack’s counter-query beamed out in colors through the night:
“Under present ballast, seventeen-eight,” came the answer from the gunboat’s signal mast.
“Safe anchorage,” Captain Jack signaled back.
“Can you meet us with a pilot?” questioned the on-coming gunboat.
“That’s all, Hal,” the young skipper called, through the engine room speaking tube. “Want to row me out and put me aboard the gunboat?”
In another jiffy the two young chums had put off in the boat, Hal at the oars, Jack at the tiller ropes. The gunboat was now lying to, some seven hundred yards off the mouth of the little harbor. Hastings bent lustily to the oars, sending the boat over the rocking water until he was within a hundred yards of the steam craft’s bridge.
“Gun boat ahoy!” roared Hal, between his hands. Then, by a slip of the tongue, and wholly innocent of any intentional offense, he bellowed:
“What’s that?” came a sharp retort from the gunboat’s bridge. “Don’t try to be funny, young man!”
“Beg your pardon, sir. That was a slip of the tongue,” Hal replied, meekly, as he colored. “Are you the gunboat ’Hudson?’”
“No; I’m her commanding officer, young man! Who in blazes are you?”
“I’m the goat, it seems,” muttered Hastings, under his breath. But, aloud, he replied:
“Then why don’t you bring him on board?” came the sharp question. “Did you think I only wanted to look at a pilot?”
“All right, sir. Shall I make fast to your starboard side gangway?” Hal called.
“That’s the naval style, I guess,” murmured Jack to his chum. “No fooling in the talk. I wonder if that fellow eats pie? Or is his temper due to coffee?”
Answering only with a quiet grin, Hal rowed alongside the starboard side gangway. Jack, waiting, sprang quickly to the steps, ascending, waving his hand to Hal as he went. Young Hastings quickly shoved off, then bent to his oars.
“Where’s the pilot?” came a stern voice, from the bridge, as Jack Benson’s head showed above the starboard rail.
“What does this fooling mean? You’re not old enough to hold a pilot’s license.”