The Dreadnought Boys on Aero Service

CHAPTER I

SOMETHING NEW IN NAVAL LIFE

One breezy day in early June, when a fresh wind off shore was whipping the water into sparkling white caps, excitement and comment fairly hummed about the crowded foredecks of the big Dreadnought Manhattan.

The formidable looking sea-fighter lay with half a dozen other smaller naval vessels – battleships and cruisers – in the stretch of water known as Hampton Roads, which, sheltered by rising ground, has, from time immemorial, formed an anchorage for our fighting-ships, and is as rich in historical associations as any strip of sea within the jurisdiction of the United States.

The cause of all the turmoil, which was agitating every jackie on the vessel, was a notice which had been posted on the ship's bulletin board that morning.

It was tacked up in the midst of notices of band concerts, challenges to boxing matches, lost or found articles, and the like. At first it had not attracted much attention. But soon one jackie, and then another, had scanned it till, by means of the thought-wireless, which prevails on a man-of-war, the whole fore part of the ship was now vibrant and buzzing with the intelligence.

The notice which had excited so much attention read as follows:

"Enlisted Men and Petty Officers: You are instructed to send your volunteer applications for positions in the experimental Aero squad. All applications to be made in writing to Lieutenant De Frees in charge of the experiment station."

"Aero service, eh?" grunted more than one grizzled old shell-back, "well, I've served my time in many an old sea-going hooker, but hanged if I'd venture my precious skin on board a sky-clipper."

"Aye, aye, mate. Let the youngsters risk their lily-white necks if they want to," formed the burden of the growled responses, "but you and me 'ull smoke Uncle Sam's baccy, and take our pay with a good deck under our feet."

But this state of caution did not extend to the younger members of the ship's company. Least of all to Boatswain's Mate Herc – otherwise Hercules – Taylor and his inseparable chum, Ned Strong, the latter of whom was now chief gunner's mate of the biggest vessel in the navy.

Neither Ned nor Herc smoked. By observation of those who did indulge in the practice, they had discovered that the use of tobacco affected more senses than one, and rendered a man incapable of the highest physical proficiency. The custom of smoking not only impaired the eyesight of many a gunner, but in the athletic sports, of which both lads were so fond, it also showed its bad effects. Ned knew of more than one promising young gun-pointer who had been compelled to relinquish his laurels on account of tobacco-affected eyesight.

As a consequence, the two trim, clean-cut lads, their faces bronzed and clear from sea air and clean living, stood apart from the group about the "smoke-lamp."

"I'm going to send in my name," announced Ned with twinkling eyes. "The aero section of the navy is going to be an important one in the future. There is a good chance for a chap to advance himself in such work."

"By the great horn spoon!" muttered Herc, in his enthusiastic, whimsical way, "I'm with you, Ned. We'll be regular sky-pilots before the summer's out!"

He began to rub his shoulder-blades, while a humorous smile played over his freckled, straightforward features.

"What's the matter?" asked Ned, noting Herc's brisk rubbing of the part aforesaid.

"Oh, hum! I thought I felt my wings sprouting," replied Herc, with a broad grin.

"Tell you what, we've a few minutes yet. Let's get our ditty boxes – or 'ditto' boxes, as you used to call them – and write our applications at once."

"Let's talk a while longer," said Herc, with an odd look.

"Why, what's the matter? Surely you aren't regretting your determination already."

Herc, for reply, bent over and touched his feet.

"No; they're not cold," he said; "I thought for a minute they were." Then he looked up into the cloudless blue vault of the heavens.

"Say, Ned, it's an awful long way up there, isn't it? How far, I wonder?"

"What do you want to know for?" asked Ned, moving away.

"Oh, nothing. Only I'd like to know how far we are likely to tumble, in case we get our applications accepted, and in case we fly as high as the sky, and in case – "

"Oh, come on, Herc," urged Ned; "time enough to worry about that when we are assigned to aero duty."

"All that goes up must come down," said Herc sagely, joining Ned nevertheless, "but we've reversed the process."

"How do you make that out?"

"Well, when we were on submarine duty we explored the bottom of the sea, didn't we? And now, if all goes well, we're going to venture aloft."

Ned burst into a laugh, and they moved off arm in arm, exchanging greetings with the crowd of blue jackets lounging about at the after-dinner rest. As they threaded their way among them, Herc burst into song:

"'There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft!' That's me, Ned."

"First freckled cherub I ever heard of," chuckled Ned.

Leaving the two lads to write their letters, we feel that it is now our duty to let our readers know something more about Ned Strong and Herc Taylor. They are two lads worth knowing. Neither of them much over eighteen years of age, they had, during their short career in the navy, each made his mark in no uncertain fashion. In his chosen branch of the service, Ned Strong was admired by the officers and adored by the men. His advance had been rapid, and some of his more enthusiastic friends were already hinting at a commission in sight for him in the time to come.

As for the merry, light-hearted Herc Taylor, that befreckled youth had as many friends among officers and men as Ned, and was one of the youngest bos'un's mates in the navy.

As readers of the Dreadnought Boys series know, both lads had entered the navy, like so many other "likely" recruits, from a farm. From the first a measure of luck had been theirs. But dogged perseverance, and a determination to overcome all obstacles by honorable means, had, also, aided them not a little in their rapid advance.

In "The Dreadnought Boys on Battle Practice," we followed the early steps of their life in the navy. It was not all as pleasant as they had imagined it would be. To the boys, as "rookies," much hard, and not over-pleasant work, fell. But scrubbing decks, cleaning paint and the like, they accepted in good part. "It's helping to keep our $5,000,000 home trim and fit," was the way Ned used to put it.

A ship's bully tried his best to make their paths thorny, but Ned, in a battle that will live long in forecastle annals, bested him. Kennell tried to take a despicable revenge. With a gang of rascals, he concerned himself in a plot to injure the Dreadnought Boys. But his machinations came to naught. Instead, Ned became the means of saving the inventor of a new explosive and type of gun from a serious predicament. Right after this, Herc's turn came, when he displayed wonderful heroism following a disastrous "flare-back."

Following the stirring days at Guantanamo, came a voyage on a torpedo-boat destroyer, the celebrated Beale. The two lads, on this cruise, found themselves plunged into the very thick of a South American revolution. The uprising seriously affected American interests, and, by a stroke of good fortune, our lads were able to play a prominent part in bringing the situation to a successful outcome. In this book one of the many exciting adventures described was the lads' escape from a prison, when it was shelled during a hot engagement, and their subsequent daredevil dash on board a revolutionary torpedo craft.

By this time, although, of course, their participation in the revolution could not be "mentioned in the despatches," the boys had placed themselves in line for promotion. The eyes of their superiors were on them. But success did not spoil them or "swell their heads." They were still just as ready to fulfill an order promptly and cheerfully as in their apprentice days. As that is the spirit that wins in the navy, the Dreadnought Boys were singled out for some hazardous work on board a new type of submarine. Enemies of Uncle Sam nearly succeeded in sinking the diving boat for good and all with an infernal machine, but the boys providentially discovered the plot in time, and saved many lives. In that book, too, they had an interesting encounter with Sound pirates, and played a rather prominent part in the pretty romance of the diving boat's inventor.

The opening of this book finds them back on regular duty. Although the routine of battleship life in times of peace may seem tame and humdrum, the boys, nevertheless, devoted themselves to it with the same cheerful zest which had carried them through so many dashing adventures.

But the quiet and monotonous daily existence which they had enjoyed during and since the winter cruise to European stations, was not to last long. Although they did not know it, the Dreadnought Boys were on the brink of some most remarkable happenings.

"By the way," said Herc, as, their letters written and deposited in the ship's post-office, the two chums emerged on deck once more, "you haven't let this aerial business drive the recollection of to-morrow's races out of your mind, have you?"

He referred to some contests ashore, which had been arranged with enthusiasm by the officers and crews of the ships of the squadron.

"I should say not," laughed Ned. "Why?"

"Nothing, only there are a few chaps in the fleet who'd like to see us both fall down hard. You're in good trim, Ned?"

"I think so. Feel fit, anyway."

"I needn't have asked you. I know you're always in good shape."

"I can return the compliment," laughed Ned.

Just then the bugles began singing the calls for the busy afternoon's practice-work on guns and at drill. With a hasty word, the chums separated and hurried to take their places in the big machine of which they were already important cogs.

CHAPTER II

"IF HE'S A MAN, HE'LL STAND UP."

The passage of Ned and Herc from the foredeck in quest of their ditty-boxes had not gone unnoted by two men lounging at ease under the shadow of the great 13-inch guns projecting from the forward turret. The big circular steel structure acted as a wind-break, and the pair lay here smoking and talking in low tones.

"I'd give fifty dollars to know Ned Strong's secret," observed one of them, flicking the ashes from a cigar upon the spotless decks, a deliberate infraction of the ship's laws. Selden Merritt was one of the few "before the mast" men on board who smoked cigars. A pipe and a plug of black, rank tobacco usually does for your jackie, but Merritt was an exception to the rule.

"It would be worth it," agreed his companion, a heavily-set chap of about nineteen. His cap was off, and his black, bristly hair, cut pompadour, stood straight up from his rather low forehead.

Merritt was a man of about twenty-four, blonde, thin and "race-horsey" in build. He had the reputation of having been a college man and champion runner, until, losing prestige and reputation through dissipation, he had been forced to enlist. It had proved the best thing he ever did. Four years in the navy had given him a pink, clear skin, a bright eye and an erect carriage. But it had not taken a furtive sneer out of his expression, nor altered his disposition, which was mean and crafty. His bearing, however, was rather distinguished, with a certain swagger, and his talk showed that he was an educated man.

"Did you have much to do with them on their first cruise?" inquired Merritt's companion, Ray Chance.

"No, they were both enlisted men. But they managed to give a black eye, in a figurative way, to a good friend of mine."

"You mean Bill Kennell?"

"Yes. I hear that he's been pardoned from prison – political pull. But that doesn't alter the fact that they accomplished his downfall."

"Well, I never liked either of them. I heard about them by reputation before I came to the Manhattan from the Dixie. I like them still less from what I've seen of them on board here. I think this fellow Strong is a big faker."

"Yes. I'm sick and disgusted with him and the airs he gives himself. His dear chum and inseparable is almost as bad. I'd like to take a fall out of both of them."

"You'll get your chance to-morrow in the squadron's games. You can beat Ned Strong running the best day he ever stepped on a track."

"I ought to be able to, and I mean to do it, too. I don't like bluffs, and this chap Strong is a false alarm if ever there was one."

"Say, you fellows," suddenly interpolated a voice, "if you think Strong is such a bluff, why don't you tell him so?"

The interruption came from a short, stocky, little blue-jacket, lounging nearby. He had been reading a book on gunnery, but the raised voices of the Dreadnought Boy's detractors had aroused his attention. His blue eyes twinkled rather humorously, as he eyed the agile, long-limbed Merritt and his sallow, dark-haired companion.

"Hullo, Benjamin Franklin; were you rubbering on our conversation?" said Merritt, assuming an indignant expression.

"Ben Franklin" was the nickname given to the studious tar whose right name was Stephen Wynn.

"It didn't take any 'rubbering,' as you call it, to overhear you," said Wynn quietly; "if you take my advice, when you want to say mean things about Ned Strong or his chum, you'll lower your voice aboard this ship. They've got quite a few friends."

"Just the same," maintained Merritt, "the chap isn't all he sets up to be. He's got some secret, like all such fellows."

"I guess his secret is hard work and attention to duty," said Wynn rather shortly, returning to his reading.

"You don't seriously think that there is any chance of Strong's giving you a tussle for the first place?" asked Ray Chance.

"Frankly, I don't. But there is always a possibility of mistaking one's man. I'm wise enough to know that."

"But you have arranged in some way to make success certain?"

Merritt gave Chance a quizzical look.

"You know me," he said, with a knowing wink, "Chalmers of the old Luzzy (sailor slang for the Louisiana) is an old friend of mine. He dislikes Strong as much as I do. He's the next best man in the race. If things go wrong, we've got a little system arranged to pocket friend Strong. But how about you? You are pitted against Taylor in the pole vault, aren't you?"

"Yes, and I ain't worrying, you bet."

Merritt still retained a good choice of diction, a relic of his college days, but Chance's talk was was more uncouth and less polished.

"Good! I don't mind telling you I've got some money out on myself. Enough to swamp a good deal of my pay, in fact. I've got to win."

"About the same thing here," grinned Chance; "if I lose, it's all up with me financially. I'm in pretty deep."

"Tell you what," said Merritt suddenly, "I hear that there will be extra pay and bonuses attaching to this aero duty. Let's send in applications, and then if we get trimmed in the races and jumps we will have a chance to get some extra coin."

"That's a good idea," agreed Chance. But as they started to carry out their intention, the same bugle calls that had hastened the steps of Ned and Herc recalled them to duty.

Stephen Wynn arose with a sigh, and thrust his book inside his loose blouse. "Ben Franklin" disliked to leave his studies for duty. But he was a smart sailor, and formed one of Ned's gun crew. Merritt and Chance were on one of the after turrets.

"Those fellows took care to sink their voices after they found out I'd overheard them," said Wynn to himself, as he fell in with the rest of the blue-jackets. "I'll bet that they were plotting some mischief to Strong and Taylor. At any rate, I'll put them on their guard at the first opportunity I get."

At three-thirty, or seven bells, the gun drills and calisthenic exercises were over, and a brief space of leisure ensued. Wynn, according to his determination, sought out Ned and Herc. He lost no time in communicating his suspicions to them. But, somewhat to his astonishment, neither of the lads seemed much impressed.

"A fellow who plots and backbites in dark corners is not one to be scared of," said Ned. "But just the same, Ben Franklin, I'm obliged to you. I guess we'll keep our eyes on our two friends, eh, Herc?"

"Not worth bothering with," observed Herc, "as the car conductor said when the fellow offered him a plugged dime. If they can win fair and square, we won't grudge it to them."

"Well, I've warned you," said "Ben Franklin." "By the way, what makes those fellows so sore at you?"

"Oh, Merritt, so I've heard, was a friend of Bill Kennell. He was the fellow, you know, who kidnapped Mr. Varian in Cuba. He naturally dislikes us for the part we played in apprehending Kennell. As for Chance, he was in my gun crew up to a few weeks ago. I had to have him up 'at the stick' for insubordination once or twice, and I guess it's stuck in his craw."

"If it hadn't been for you, Ned, he'd have gone to the brig," put in Herc.

"Oh, well, I thought that a taste of the brig would be too severe," said Ned. "I hoped a good wigging by the 'old man' (the captain) would be sufficient, but it wasn't. Then Chance sulked and played sick. He took in the doctor for a while, but it didn't last. He was punished and restored to duty with an after gun crew following that."

"And blames you for all his troubles," said Herc indignantly, "and I guess I come in for a share of his dislike."

"Oh, life's too short to worry about Merritt and Chance," said Ned, breaking off the conversation. "It looks as if we'd have a glorious day to-morrow," he went on, adroitly turning the topic of talk. The ruse succeeded. The three shipmates fell to discussing the coming games. Others joined them, and the time passed rapidly till five-thirty, – three bells – when all hands were piped to supper, a plain but substantial meal. For the benefit of our non-seafaring reader, we will tell him that on this particular night it consisted of: – hot roast-beef hash, cold boiled ham, canned peaches, bread, butter and tea or coffee. Thus, it will be seen that Uncle Sam does not starve his blue-jackets.

Supper was in full swing when Ned, who was at the head of the table which seated his "mess," was the recipient of a surprising testimonial.

It came in the shape of a hot baked potato, flung with accuracy and speed. It struck the Dreadnought Boy in the eye, and burst, spreading its pasty contents over his features. Herc, who sat by Ned, leaped to his feet in a flash, while Ned hastily pawed the mass out of his eyes.

"I saw who threw that," cried Herc, his face aflame, the freckles looming up like spots on the sun; "if he's a man, he'll stand up."

A stir ran through the forecastle. Herc's finger pointed to a distant table and rested on the form of Merritt. Chance sat by him. Both had been laughing an instant before, but as Merritt saw that he had been found out his face assumed a rather sickly grin.

"Sit down, Herc," ordered Ned rather sternly, "I'll attend to this. Am I to understand that you threw that potato?" he demanded, fixing his gaze straight on Merritt's face.

The other's eyes sank. He looked disturbed and a bit scared. Ned's voice had held no uncertain ring.

"It – it was just a joke," he said. "You don't need to get huffy about it."

"Rather a strenuous joke, wasn't it?" asked Ned in a firm, calm voice, while the eyes of every man in the place were fixed on him in breathless attention.

"I – I didn't mean to hit you," went on Merritt. "I just wanted to give you a jump. It was just a joke – that's all."

"That being the case," resumed Ned, "I shall have to ask you to remove the consequences of your joke."

So saying, he deliberately threw the remains of the potato on the deck.

"Now, come here and pick that up and carry it back," he said, with a flash in his eyes. "We'll carry this joke through to its conclusion."

Merritt turned pale and hesitated. Then he caught Ned's eye. A certain glint in it seemed to galvanize him into action. Amid a roar of laughter from the entire assemblage, Merritt, red and white by turns, crossed to Ned's table and carefully picked up every scrap of the débris.

"What are you laughing at?" he glared at Herc, as he made his way back to his own place.

"At your joke," sputtered Herc, affecting a spasm of amusement. "Ho! ho! ho! That's one of the best jokes I've ever seen."

"It is, is it?" glowered Merritt.

"Yes, but it isn't as big a joke as it would have been if you hadn't done as Ned told you. Ho! ho! ho! It isn't every puppy that will fetch and carry at the first lesson."

The shout of laughter was taken up by the rest of the blue-jackets. Amid this storm of merriment, Merritt made his way to his seat. He reached it just as the officer of the deck entered.

"Merritt, what are you out of your place for?" demanded this dignitary, who was noted as a strict disciplinarian.

"I – I dropped a potato, sir, and was picking it up," stammered Merritt, trembling with rage and mortification.

CHAPTER III

FOR THE TROPHY OF THE FLEET

As Ned had prophesied, the next day was bright and clear. There was just enough of the coolness of early summer to give a crisp tang to the air. It stirred the blood like martial music. It was a day which challenged every athlete in the squadron to do his best. That is, so far as external conditions were concerned.

The ground selected for the trying out of the championship of the squadron was a flat field, some five acres in extent, not far from the shore. It stood on slightly rising ground. Trees, fresh and green, stood in a thick mass on one side. Seaward the ground sloped gently, and beyond could be seen the grim sea-fighters, swinging at anchor; from some of the smoke-stacks vapor curled lazily. The basket-like fighting masts resembled the work of some geometrically inclined spider.

Cheering and laughing, the contingents from the various ships were landed after dinner. In their midst, guarding them jealously, as bees would their queen, each ship's company surrounded their group of athletes. And a fine showing they made when they assembled in the dressing-rooms under the grandstand. This structure was already occupied by the officers of the division, headed by Rear Admiral Cochran, a white-haired veteran of the seven seas. A sprinkling of ladies in bright costumes lent a dash of color to the scene.

The course had been laid out, and the officers who had constituted themselves a committee in charge of the sports were already busy about it, when the Manhattan's boats landed their laughing, singing, cheering blue-jackets. Among them were Ned and Herc. Neither of them had yet changed to their running togs. Merritt and Chance had, however, but they both wore long raincoats, which prevented Ned from sizing them up, as he was anxious to do.

Both the Dreadnought Boys were quiet and self-contained as usual. But Merritt and Chance were talking loudly and flinging remarks right and left. Atwell, Turner, Simpkins, Jessup and a dozen other Manhattan entries in various events formed the remainder of the athletic contingent from the big dreadnought. As they entered the dressing-rooms – or rather the big space under the grandstand – a babel of cries of welcome and jocular defiance surged about the Manhattanites.

"Here come the champions of the squadron," shouted some one.

"Say, Jack, wait till they are champions before you start giving the title to them," hailed another voice. It was that of Chalmers of the Louisiana. He wore dark-green running trunks with a white shirt. Across his chest was a red, white and blue sash, on which was blazoned the name of his ship. Several of the other runners and athletes affected this touch of dandyism. Ned and Herc, however, wore plain running suits: trunks and sleeveless shirts and good track shoes.

Chalmers lost no time in seeking out Merritt. The two conversed in a corner in low tones. After a time, Ned and Herc, too, succeeded in getting away from a crowd of their shipmates and found time to pass a word or two.