“Oi, oi!  That’s right,” agreed Ikey.  “Just the same I could tell you lots better than that.”

The boys had sampled the cook’s coffee, but not much else, since embarking on the S. P. 888.  It was true that the pitching of the chaser was not conducive to a ravenous appetite.

“If Uncle kept all his bluejackets on these submarine chasers,” said Whistler, “he’d save money on grub.  I wonder these fellows,” referring to the crew of the S. P. 888, “manage to keep up with their rations.”

The little craft swerved at last and took the waves directly astern as she ran shoreward.  The mouth of the harbor opened up to her, and in the gray light, as the chaser shot in between the headlands, almost smothered in foam, the men and boys on her deck sighted through the haze the towering hull of the great battleship.

“There she is!” gasped Frenchy.  “My! isn’t she a monster?”

“She’s a regular leviathan,” agreed Whistler.

Even Torry forgot his discomfort and showed enthusiasm.  “She’s the biggest thing I ever saw afloat,” he said.  “Listen, fellows!”

Two strokes of a silvery bell rang out from some ship asleep in the morning mist.  It was five o’clock.  From the decks of the battleship sounded the bugles of the boatswain’s mates, piping reveille and “all hands.”

“Gee!” groaned Frenchy, “reg’lar duty again, fellows.”

“Don’t croak,” advised Whistler.  “It’s what we signed on for, isn’t it?”

The chaser, now riding an even keel in the more quiet waters of the harbor, swept at slower speed to the side of the towering hull of the Kennebunk.  A sentinel at the starboard ladder, which was lowered, hailed sharply.  A moment later a deck officer came to the side.

“S.  P. Eight Hundred and Eighty-eight, ahoy!” he said.

“Lieutenant Perkins in command,” said that officer, standing in his storm coat and boots on the wet deck.  “With squad of seamen under Ensign MacMasters for the Kennebunk.”

“Send them aboard, Lieutenant, if you please.  We trip anchors in half an hour.  The tide is just at the turn.”

Mr. MacMasters was already lining up his men, and Seven Knott, with a bandage on his head, was looking for stragglers.  Some of the chaser’s crew shook hands with the boys assigned to the superdreadnaught before they went up her side.

“Good luck!  If you get a chance, smash a Fritzie battleship for me!” were some of the wishes that followed Whistler Morgan and his companions aboard the superdreadnaught.

The boys from Seacove and their companions reported to the chief master-at-arms, while Mr. MacMasters made his report to the executive officer.

At first glance it was plainly to be seen by the newcomers that the superdreadnaught had a full crew.  Their squad made complete her complement of men.  She was ready to put to sea.

Hammocks were already piped up and the smoking lamp was lit.  The cooks of the watch were serving coffee, and the newly arrived party had their share, and grateful they were.  Their experience aboard the submarine patrol boat had been most chilling and uncomfortable.