r 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.

"I ain't doing anything," he said.

"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.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"I'm captain's mess boy."

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.

As he lay in his berth that night, his feeling of fright passed away
and he was overcome with a feeling of humiliation. That _he_, Tom Slade,
who had been a scout of the scouts, who had worked for the Colors, whose
whole family history had been on