The Dreadnought Boys on Aero Service

"Sit down, Herc," ordered Ned rather sternly, "I'll attend to this. Am I to understand that you threw that potato?" he demanded, fixing his gaze straight on Merritt's face.

The other's eyes sank. He looked disturbed and a bit scared. Ned's voice had held no uncertain ring.

"It – it was just a joke," he said. "You don't need to get huffy about it."

"Rather a strenuous joke, wasn't it?" asked Ned in a firm, calm voice, while the eyes of every man in the place were fixed on him in breathless attention.

"I – I didn't mean to hit you," went on Merritt. "I just wanted to give you a jump. It was just a joke – that's all."

"That being the case," resumed Ned, "I shall have to ask you to remove the consequences of your joke."

So saying, he deliberately threw the remains of the potato on the deck.

"Now, come here and pick that up and carry it back," he said, with a flash in his eyes. "We'll carry this joke through to its conclusion."

Merritt turned pale and hesitated. Then he caught Ned's eye. A certain glint in it seemed to galvanize him into action. Amid a roar of laughter from the entire assemblage, Merritt, red and white by turns, crossed to Ned's table and carefully picked up every scrap of the débris.

"What are you laughing at?" he glared at Herc, as he made his way back to his own place.

"At your joke," sputtered Herc, affecting a spasm of amusement. "Ho! ho! ho! That's one of the best jokes I've ever seen."

"It is, is it?" glowered Merritt.

"Yes, but it isn't as big a joke as it would have been if you hadn't done as Ned told you. Ho! ho! ho! It isn't every puppy that will fetch and carry at the first lesson."

The shout of laughter was taken up by the rest of the blue-jackets. Amid this storm of merriment, Merritt made his way to his seat. He reached it just as the officer of the deck entered.

"Merritt, what are you out of your place for?" demanded this dignitary, who was noted as a strict disciplinarian.

"I – I dropped a potato, sir, and was picking it up," stammered Merritt, trembling with rage and mortification.

CHAPTER III

FOR THE TROPHY OF THE FLEET

As Ned had prophesied, the next day was bright and clear. There was just enough of the coolness of early summer to give a crisp tang to the air. It stirred the blood like martial music. It was a day which challenged every athlete in the squadron to do his best. That is, so far as external conditions were concerned.

The ground selected for the trying out of the championship of the squadron was a flat field, some five acres in extent, not far from the shore. It stood on slightly rising ground. Trees, fresh and green, stood in a thick mass on one side. Seaward the ground sloped gently, and beyond could be seen the grim sea-fighters, swinging at anchor; from some of the smoke-stacks vapor curled lazily. The basket-like fighting masts resembled the work of some geometrically inclined spider.

Cheering and laughing, the contingents from the various ships were landed after dinner. In their midst, guarding them jealously, as bees would their queen, each ship's company surrounded their group of athletes. And a fine showing they made when they assembled in the dressing-rooms under the grandstand. This structure was already occupied by the officers of the division, headed by Rear Admiral Cochran, a white-haired veteran of the seven seas. A sprinkling of ladies in bright costumes lent a dash of color to the scene.

The course had been laid out, and the officers who had constituted themselves a committee in charge of the sports were already busy about it, when the Manhattan's boats landed their laughing, singing, cheering blue-jackets. Among them were Ned and Herc. Neither of them had yet changed to their running togs. Merritt and Chance had, however, but they both wore long raincoats, which prevented Ned from sizing them up, as he was anxious to do.

Both the Dreadnought Boys were quiet and self-contained as usual. But Merritt and Chance were talking loudly and flinging remarks right and left. Atwell, Turner, Simpkins, Jessup and a dozen other Manhattan entries in various events formed the remainder of the athletic contingent from the big dreadnought. As they entered the dressing-rooms – or rather the big space under the grandstand – a babel of cries of welcome and jocular defiance surged about the Manhattanites.

"Here come the champions of the squadron," shouted some one.

"Say, Jack, wait till they are champions before you start giving the title to them," hailed another voice. It was that of Chalmers of the Louisiana. He wore dark-green running trunks with a white shirt. Across his chest was a red, white and blue sash, on which was blazoned the name of his ship. Several of the other runners and athletes affected this touch of dandyism. Ned and Herc, however, wore plain running suits: trunks and sleeveless shirts and good track shoes.

Chalmers lost no time in seeking out Merritt. The two conversed in a corner in low tones. After a time, Ned and Herc, too, succeeded in getting away from a crowd of their shipmates and found time to pass a word or two.

Merritt had cast off his long coat to adjust his trunks. Ned found his eyes riveted on the fellow. If physique were any criterion, Merritt should have been a fine runner.

Clean-cut as a race-horse, his skin was smooth and of good color, with lithe muscles playing under it. He was the beau ideal in build of a speed machine. Chance, on the other hand, was heavier-set, but he showed up well in that assemblage of athletically built men and youths. Both Ned and Herc agreed that the two whom they instinctively regarded as enemies were by no means to be rated lightly.

But a sharp bugle call cut short further observation. The games were beginning. The hundred-yard dash was third on the program, and Ned did not emerge till just before the starting time. The wind was sharp, and he did not want to contract his muscles by letting the cold air blow on his limbs. Herc, in a heavy navy coat, went to the starting line with him. He stood by his chum, giving him some last words of advice. Ned appeared to listen, but his thoughts were actually elsewhere. He had already made up his mind to his course of action. He was going to run a waiting race, depending on a sharp spurt to win.

In a quick glance over the six entrants, he saw that Chalmers and Merritt were the only ones he had cause to fear. He noticed them whispering together, and resolved to keep a sharp lookout on their actions.

The air was filled with shouts and suggestions and greetings from blue-jackets, who were encouraging the men from their own ship. Every man in the squadron who could be spared was there. They made a big throng, lining the track on the side away from the grandstand.

"Hey, there, Springer! Do your prettiest for the Merrimac."

"Oh, you Polthew! Don't forget the Massachusetts!"

"Say, Polly, look out for that Manhattan bunch."

"Hi, Chalmers, you're the man. You're carrying the Luzzy's money."

"That's right, and don't you forget it."

"And you, Strong! My month's pay's on you."

"You'll lose, then; Merritt's the man."

"What's the matter with Carter? Guess you'll know there's a Kansas in the fleet."

"Stand back, please! Stand back!" cried those in charge of the course.

The line-up was quickly arranged. The starters crouched ready to dart off. Carter made a false start, and the excitement waxed furious.

"Ready?"

Lieutenant Steedforth, of the Louisiana, the starter, put the question.

Like greyhounds preparing to leave the leash, the contestants flexed their muscles.

The starter lifted the pistol. A puff of smoke and sharp report followed.

Merritt, Chalmers and Polthew got off at the same instant. They made a showy start, and the grandstand as well as the field buzzed with enthusiasm.

Springer, of the Merrimac, and Carter, of the Kansas, came next. Strong came last, and was almost unnoticed in the frenzy of excitement.

The pace was terrific. In the first twenty-five yards Polthew and Carter dropped behind, hopelessly out of it. Far in front, Merritt, Chalmers and Springer were fighting it grimly out. Springer hung like death on the heels of the two leaders.

Ned had crept up, and kept his pace steadily. Suddenly Springer spurted. This carried him past Chalmers and Merritt, who were about even. But the effort had been made too soon. In a second's time he dropped back again.

The Dreadnought Boy knew that the two tricksters in front were going to concentrate on stopping him if he crept up too soon. So he crawled up till he felt it would be foolish to delay longer. Then, letting out all his reserve power, Ned spurted. His burst of speed was easy and genuine. It was not forced.