"Might as well drive on," growled Al, punching the starter button again.
"This Frenchman from Cork would spoil anything."

"Aw--g'wan!" muttered the abashed Michael Donahue.

"Well, that chap was no guard, that is sure," Whistler said.

They drove slowly on across the bridge. All of them searched the base of
the dam--or as much of it as could be seen, for the fringe of trees and
shrubs that masked it--but not a moving figure did they see. The water
poured over the flashboard with a splashing murmur at that distance, and
ran down under the bridge in a rocky bed. It was clear and cool looking.
Below the factories the river water was of an entirely different color,
and people in Seacove had begun to object to the filth from the Elmvale
mills being dumped into the cove.

Al Torrance stopped the car at the side gate of the biggest munition
works just as the noon whistle blew. Seven Knott got out and began to
look about for his friends to whom he had tried to talk enlistment.

He soon spied two of them, and beckoned them near. Others followed.
Whistler and his chums were introduced by the boatswain's mate, who left
the talking to the youths after he had introduced his friends.

In five minutes there was a very earnest enlistment meeting going on at
the gate of the munition factory. Perhaps no harder place to gain
recruits could have been selected. In the first instance, all the boys
working here were earning big money. And there was, too, some excitement
in the work. As one of them said: