Part 2 (1/2)

”Doesn't look like it to me, sir,” Dan replied, ”and the chief engineer is of the same opinion.”

”Take the bridge with Mr. Curtin.”

Not more than two minutes was Dave below decks, half of that time with the chief engineer. Then he hurried back, disappearing into the radio room. In a code message he notified destroyer headquarters of the encounter, its result, and the nature of the damage to the ”Logan.”

Within five minutes the answer came back through the air:

”Return to repair. Keep alert for enemy craft understood to be more numerous in your waters than usual.”

The order bore the signature of Admiral Speare's flag-lieutenant.

”Home, James,” smiled Darrin, after reading the order.

So the ”Logan” was put about. Dave did not steam fast, for it had been found impossible wholly to stop the hole below water line. Water still came in, though in diminished quant.i.ty. Fast speed would be likely to spring the damaged plates.

It was near dawn when land was sighted, and the sun was well up when the ”Logan” steamed limpingly into port. Half an hour later American dock authorities had taken charge of the destroyer. Dave waited until he saw his beloved craft in dry dock and the water receding from under her as it was pumped out of the basin in which the ”Logan” now lay.

In the meantime Dalzell, who had had two hours' sleep on the way to port, was busy granting sh.o.r.e leave to such men of the crew as were ent.i.tled to have it. More than half of the officers also received leave.

As soon as luncheon had been finished, and after Darrin had conferred with the dock officer, he and Dan went ash.o.r.e.

”Where shall we go?” asked Dan, when they had left the naval yard behind them.

”Anywhere that fancy takes us,” Darrin answered, ”and by dark, of course, to a hotel for as good a sh.o.r.e dinner as war times permit.”

”We'd have a better dinner on board,” laughed Dan, sometimes known in the service as Danny Grin. ”These British hotels are all feeling the effects of the enemy's submarine campaign, and can't put up a half-way good meal.”

Once in the streets of the port town, the two young American naval officers strolled slowly along. The crowds had a distinctly war-time appearance. Hundreds of British and American jackies and two or three score French naval seamen were to be seen.

”Whoever invented saluting doesn't have my unqualified grat.i.tude,”

grumbled Danny Grin. ”My arm is aching now from returning so many salutes.”

”It's a trifling woe,” Darrin a.s.sured him. ”Look more sharply, Dan. You missed those two French sailors who saluted you.”

Too good a service man to do a thing like that without regret, Dalzell turned around to discover that the two slighted French sailors were glancing backward. He wheeled completely around, bringing his right hand smartly up to his cap visor and inclining his head forward. Facing forward once more he was just in time to ”catch” and return the salutes of three British jackies.

”Quite a bore, isn't it?” asked a drawling, friendly voice, as the two young officers paused to look in at a shop window's display.

The young man who had hailed them was attired in a suit and coat of quite distinctly American cut. He was good-looking, agreeable in manner, and possessed of an air of distinction.

”The salute is a matter of discipline, not of opinion,” Dave Darrin answered, pleasantly. ”It isn't as troublesome as it looks.”

”I have sometimes wondered if you didn't find it tedious,” continued the stranger.

”Sometimes,” Dave admitted, with a nod. ”But it shouldn't be.”

”You are an American, aren't you?” asked Dalzell.

”Yes. Matthews is my name. I'm over here on what appears to be the foolish mission of trying to buy a lot of fine Irish linen, and that is a commodity which seems to have disappeared from the market.”