“Just like three peas in a pod,” declared Bill Witt.  “These two Brighton boys took me right in—–­and me a rank outsider!  I’m sure lucky to have struck two such good friends.”

Everybody laughed at Bill’s frank avowal of friendship and Jack responded with a crack on the back that made Bill wince.

“Guess we know good goods when we meet it,” he added.

“Little Mack” had been taking it all in with approval.

“That’s right, boys,” he smiled.  “You’ve got the right spirit.  That’s the kind of democracy we stand for, and that’s why the good old U.S.  Navy is the best in the world—–­fellows all pulling together.  I’m mighty proud of all my boys,” continued the little lieutenant.  “You’ve made a great record so far, and I only hope you keep up the good work.  Stick together like pals—–­and be proud of that flag of ours.”

With a wave of the hand the ship’s commander passed along the deck and into the conning tower.

“There’s an ace for you,” said Jack, with an admiring glance at the retreating figure.

“Ace!  I should say so,” sputtered Bill.  “Why, if ‘Little Mack’ told me to go get von Tirpitz I’d go right after him.”

Soon it was dusk and the little fleet had gotten out of sight of land into the North Sea.  Stealing away like shadows into the gloom, the fleet of transports trailed along in battle formation ready to turn back any attack.  The crew of the Dewey had retreated into the hold and the vessel was riding awash, with Commander McClure at the wheel, observing the deployment of the fleet from the conning tower.

Down in the torpedo room, bottled up under water where no sound could escape to attract the attention of the outside world, Mike Mowrey had tuned up his old banjo and the boys were having an old-fashioned songfest.

“For it’s always fair weather,” came the jolly strains that sounded up in the conning tower above the whirr of the ship’s engines.

“Everybody’s happy to get out again,” laughed Executive Officer Cleary to his chief, as he swung the periscope to port for a full sweep of the sea.

So far there had been no incident to mar the safe convoy of the troopships.  Plowing straight ahead, the destroyers that flitted here and there through the filmy darkness danced about the transports, alert to challenge any foe.  Another hour and the short trip to the French port where the troops were to embark would be concluded and the Dewey free to dash off to her post along the Belgian coast, where Commander McClure had been ordered on guard against the German destroyers that lately had been showing a desire to engage in brushes with the allied ships.

“Guess we are not going to be molested to-night,” said “Little Mack” as he looked at his wrist watch.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” rejoined Cleary.

But they had reckoned without the two-mile-a-minute birdmen that circle the heavens like giant eagles and swoop down on their prey from high altitudes to send forth their flaming bombs and death-dealing hand grenades.  A lookout on one of the destroyers detected at this moment an aerial fleet looming out of the north like spectral dots in the dim light of the skies.  From the masthead of the vessel glowed instantly the light that had been agreed upon as a danger signal.