Then Benson watched as, from the yards high up on the gunboat’s signaling mast, colored electric lights glowed forth, twinkling briefly in turn.  This is the modern method of signaling by sea at night.

“He wants to know,” said Benson, to Mr. Farnum, as he turned, “whether there is safe anchorage for a twelve-hundred-ton gunboat of one hundred and ninety-five feet length.”

Reaching the inside of the conning tower at a bound, the young skipper rapidly manipulated his own electric signaling control.  There was a low mast on the “Farnum’s” platform deck, a mast that could be unstepped 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.