in this locality; but the Navy boys had long since learned to say
nothing that would circulate information of any moment. "Keep your mouth
closed" is an inflexible rule of the Navy; the yarns Ikey told his
"papa" and his "mama" notwithstanding!

As they drifted in toward shore slowly, weaving their way among the
moored craft, Whistler suddenly began to sniff the air and show
excitement.

"What's the matter?" demanded Torry, his closest chum. "You act like a
hound dog on a hot scent."

"Or a colored gem'man smelling po'k chops on the frypan," suggested
Frenchy, chuckling.

"Say, Mister," asked Whistler, turning to the skipper of the smack, "is
there a tank ship in here?"

"An oil tanker? No! Nothing like it."

"I smell it, too!" exclaimed Ikey suddenly.

"What you boys smell is the _Sarah Coville_ that came in just ahead of
us. She's anchored here somewhere," said the fisherman.

"What sort is she?" Whistler demanded. Then he described swiftly the oil
tender he had marked that afternoon passing the Blue Reef fishing
grounds.

"That's her," said the man. "She often slips in here. Don't know who