of colliding, below the water-line, with Uncle Sam's gunboat.

On the deck of the "Waverly" itself there was the same spirit of
expectancy that there had been an hour earlier in the afternoon.

Lieutenant Featherstone, executive officer of the gunboat, was not,
however, impatient. In fact, he stood at the rail, aft, a pretty girl
beside him, and both were looking down musingly at the rippling water
below.

"As I was saying," drawled the lieutenant, "when--"

Just then he stopped, though he did not appear startled.

Straight up out of the watery depths shot a Carroty-topped boy, his wet
skin glistening in the sun.

"Good gracious!" gasped the girl. "Where did that boy come from?"

"Say, sir," called up Eph Somers, distinguishing the lieutenant in his
swift look, "where do you want the submarine boat to anchor?"

"What's that to you, young man?" called down Mr. Featherstone, bluntly.

"Oh, just this much, sir," retorted Eph, treading water, lazily; "I
belong aboard the 'Benson,' and I've been sent to inquire where you want
us to find our moorings."

"You from the 'Benson'?" snorted the lieutenant, incredulously. "Then
where is your craft!"