"I thought maybe the white would be too easy to see," Tom answered.
Reaching the main deck he edged his way along between the narrow passageway and the washroom to a secluded spot astern. He liked this place because it was so lonesome and unfrequented and because he could hear the whir and splash of the great propellers directly beneath him as each big roller lifted the after part of the vessel out of the water. Here he could think about Bridgeboro and Temple Camp, and Roy Blakeley and the other scouts, and of how proud he was that he was an American through and through, and of what he was going to say to people after this when they called his father a "no good" and Uncle Job a "rummy." He was glad he had thought about that, for back in Bridgeboro people were always saying something.
Suddenly a stern, authoritative voice spoke just behind him. "What are you doing here?"
In the heavy darkness Tom could just make out that the figure was in khaki and he thought it was the uniform of an officer.
"What did you come here for?" the voice demanded sternly.
"I--I don' know," stammered Tom, thoroughly frightened.
Quickly, deftly, the man slapped his clothing in the vicinity of his pockets.
Laying his hand on Tom's shoulder, he marched him into the saloon and to the head of the companionway where the dim light from the passageway below enabled him to get a better sight of the boy. Tom was all of a tremor as the officer scrutinized him.
"You're the fellow that read the semaphore message, aren't you?" the officer demanded.
"Y-yes, sir, but I didn't notice them any more since I found out I shouldn't." Then he mustered courage to add, "I only went back there because it was dark and lonely, kind of. I was thinking about where I live and things----"
The officer scrutinized him curiously for a moment and apparently was satisfied, for he only added, speaking rather harshly, "You'd better be careful where you go at night and keep away from the ropes." With this he wheeled about and strode away.
For a minute or two Tom stood rooted to the spot where he stood, his heart pounding in his breast. He would not have been afraid of a whole regiment of Germans and he would probably have retained his stolid demeanor if the vessel had been sinking, but this little encounter frightened him. He wished that he had had the presence of mind to tell the officer why he had doffed his white jacket, and he wished that he had had the courage to mention how his Uncle Job had fought at Gettysburg and been buried with the flag over his coffin. Those things might have impressed the officer.