Not even at the railway station in Washington could they escape the watchfulness of the Navy Department.  The same messenger who, the day before, had handed them their copies of the Regulations, now met Benson with a note.

“The Secretary will not be at his office until one o’clock this afternoon,” announced Lieutenant Jack, looking up from the order.  “We are directed to report at that hour.”

“What shall we do until then?” demanded Eph, blankly, when the messenger had departed.

“Why, since we’re still in the service,” laughed Jack, “and as I’ve heard that the Arlington is much patronized by Navy officers, suppose we treat ourselves to a carriage, go to the Arlington and register.  That will be the last grand feeling we’ll get out of this.”

His comrades rather merrily agreed.  So, a few minutes later, the trio marched through the lobby of the Arlington to the desk.  Jack picked up a pen, and registered: 

“John Benson, U.S.N.”

Hal and Eph followed suit.  Then they were led to their connecting rooms.

“We’ll have luncheon at half-past eleven,” smiled Lieutenant Jack, as he dropped into an easy chair.  “In the service one never knows when his next meal is coming.”

“Good!” chuckled Hal, though there was a sad ring to his tone.  “Keep up as long as you can, old fellow, the fiction that we’re still in the naval service.”

“Well, aren’t we?” demanded Jack, stoutly.

“Surely,” assented Hal, meekly.

“Say,” demanded Eph, taking out notebook and pencil, “what is an ensign’s pay, anyway?”

“Seventeen hundred dollars a year,” replied Benson.

“I don’t suppose the Navy Department will try to spring less than a day’s pay on us,” hinted Eph.  “If that’s right, then the government now owes me three hundred and sixty-five into seventeen hundred.  Let me see—­”

“Oh, cut it!” laughed Hal.

“What?  My pay?” demanded Eph, “Not much, sir!  I want the only money I ever really earned.”

“One of us ought to drop Mr. Farnum a line,” hinted Jack, presently.

“Oh, well, let Hal do it,” offered Eph.  “He carries the only fountain pen in the crowd.”

Without a word Hastings crossed to a table on which were envelopes and paper, and began to write.  Perhaps he welcomed something to occupy his mind; for, truth to tell, each of these submarine boys had a woefully “blue” feeling.  Though all were naval officers, still, at this moment, all realized that they would cease to be such as soon as they had received the thanks of the Secretary of the Navy.  However, “blue” as all three felt, none of them hung back when half-past eleven arrived.  They descended to the dining room, where they refreshed themselves heartily.

The meal over, there was just about enough time left for them to walk comfortably to the Navy Department.

They had walked a couple of blocks of the way when Hal suddenly felt the stamped letter in his pocket.  He drew it out, and glanced hurriedly down the avenue.