“Meat?” the boys questioned.

“Sure,” smiled the Major.  “Wolf meat isn’t bad at all.  You perhaps forget that we have not a hundred miles of gas in the tank.  We may be here quite some time!”

CHAPTER IV

A MODERN BATTLE WITH CRIMINALS

When Dave Tower, Barney Menter’s one-time pal, received the letter suggesting a bit of “jazz” somewhere within the Arctic Circle, he was on twelve-hour shore leave.  They were to start on that mysterious subsea journey at high-tide next day.  He grinned as he showed the note to Ensign Blake, his commander.  Then he went around the corner and purchased a second-hand guitar and an oboe.

“Look!” he exclaimed, pointing to a pair of battered kettledrums in the corner.  “There’s the original pair—­made by the Adam and Eve of the South Sea Islands, or wherever kettledrums originated.  I’ll buy ’em and teach some gob to drum.  We’ll have a whole band when we arrive.”

A few hours later found them aboard the snug, shapely hull of U boat N. 12 of the U.S.A. submarine fleet.  The sub was a small one, patterned after the most recent British model, known as the “K” class.  Fleet as a flying-fish, she made twenty-two knots on the surface and ten knots when submerged.  She presented a rather odd appearance, having a short, square funnel, which was swung over into a recess in the deck when the craft submerged.

Her gun and torpedoes had been removed.  The weight of those had been replaced by an additional supply of oil and by quantities of provisions.  The provisions, together with bales of skin clothing, were packed into every available space.

She made splendid progress as she left the harbor and wound her way in and out among the islands of Puget Sound, to emerge finally round Cape Flattery and strike away into the open sea.

It became evident at once that this was no coastwise journey.  Further than that, not even Ensign Blake knew its purpose.

The sub was registered at the Navy-yard as “off on detached duty.”  The crew of ten men were all volunteers for the trip.  The expedition was under the direction of a doctor.  A man past middle age, he sat in a wicker chair below, smoking innumerable cigars and saying nothing.

“Far’s I can dope it out,” Blake said to Dave, “the old fellow did some good service for the Government during the war.  He’s had plenty of experience in the North; has some theories he wants to work out about subs and the Arctic.  The Government has some little trick they want pulled off up in that North country.  The Doctor volunteers to lead the expedition, and here we are!”

“But what do you suppose—­”

“Don’t suppose a thing,” said Blake, gazing astern at the last fading bit of land.  “There’s a lot of things that might be; but like as not none of my guesses is correct.”

“Let’s hear you guess.”