d
almost in an instant when going below surface. So Captain Jack's
counter-query beamed out in colors through the night:

"What's your draught?"

"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.

"Yes," Captain Jack responded.

"Do so," came the laconic request.

"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:

"Is that the 'Dad' boat?"

"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:

"I have the pilot you requested."

"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.

"In a hurry, young man!"

"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.

"I am the pilot, sir," Jack replied.

"Why, you're a boy."

"Guilty," Jack responded.

"What does this fooling mean? You're not old enough to hold a pilot's
license."

By this time Benson was on the deck, imme