[Sidenote:  The Stars and Stripes signal to the destroyer.]

“We’ve got her!” cried somebody aboard the destroyer, in a deep American voice full of the exultation of battle.  The lean rifles swung, lowered.  “Point one, lower.”  They were about to hear “Fire!” when the Stars and Stripes and sundry other signals burst from the deck of the misused Z-3.

“Well, what do you think of that!” said the gunner.  “If it ain’t one of our own gang.  Say, we must have given it to ’em hard.”

“We’ll go over and see who it is,” said the captain of the destroyer.  “The signals are O.K., but it may be a dodge of the Huns.  Ask ’em who they are.”

In obedience to the order, a sailor on the destroyer’s bridge wigwagged the message.

“Z-3,” answered one of the dungaree-clad figures on the submarine’s deck.

[Sidenote:  No resentment of the adventure.]

Captain Bill came up himself, as the destroyer drew alongside, to see his would-be assassin.  There was no resentment in his heart.  The adventure was only part of the day’s work.  The destroyer neared; her bow overlooked them.  The two captains looked at each other.  The dialogue was laconic.

“Hello, Bill,” said the destroyer captain.  “All right?”

“Sure,” answered Captain Bill, to one who had been his friend and classmate.

“Ta-ta, then,” said he of the destroyer; and the lean vessel swept away in the twilight.

[Sidenote:  The cook’s opinion of the destroyers.]

Captain Bill decided to stay on the surface for a while.  Then he went below to look over things.  The cook, standing over some unlovely slop which marked the end of a half a dozen eggs broken by the concussion, was giving his opinion on destroyers.  The cook was a child of Brooklyn, and could talk.  The opinion was not a nice opinion.

“Give it to ’em, cooko,” said one of the crew, patting the orator affectionately on the shoulder.  “We’re with you.”

And Captain Bill laughed to himself.

The breakfast-hour was drawing to its end, and the very last straggler sat alone at the ward-room table.  Presently an officer of the mother-ship, passing through, called to the lingering group of submarine officers.

[Sidenote:  The first of the flotilla to return.]

“The X-4 is coming up the bay, and the X-12 has been reported from signal station.”

The news was received with a little hum of friendly interest.  “Wonder what Ned will have to say for himself this time.”  “Must have struck pretty good weather.”  “Bet you John has been looking for another chance at that Hun of his.”

[Sidenote:  The appearance of the crew.]

The talk drifted away into other channels.  A little time passed.  Then suddenly a door opened, and, one after the other, entered the three officers of the first home-coming submarine.  They were clad in various ancient uniforms which might have been worn by an apprentice lad in a garage:  old gray flannel shirts, and stout grease-stained shoes; several days had passed since their faces had felt a razor, and all were a little pale from their cruise.  But the liveliest of keen eyes burned in each resolute young face, eyes smiling and glad.