The Dreadnought Boys Aboard a Destroyer E-Book

John Henry Goldfrap

• Herausgeber: Publisher s11838
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The Dreadnought Boys Aboard a Destroyer written by John Henry Goldfrap who was a North American journalist and author of boys' books. This book was published in 1911. And now republish in ebook format. We believe this work is culturally important in its original archival form. While we strive to adequately clean and digitally enhance the original work, there are occasionally instances where imperfections such as missing pages, poor pictures or errant marks may have been introduced due to either the quality of the original work. Despite these occasional imperfections, we have brought it back into print as part of our ongoing global book preservation commitment, providing customers with access to the best possible historical reprints. We appreciate your understanding of these occasional imperfections, and sincerely hope you enjoy reading this book.

Leseprobe

The Dreadnought Boys Aboard a Destroyer

By

John Henry Goldfrap

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I. THE FOREIGN AGENT.

CHAPTER II. A WILLING TOOL.

CHAPTER III. AT SEA ON A DESTROYER.

CHAPTER IV. MAN OVERBOARD!

CHAPTER V. THE DREADNOUGHT BOYS’ FORTUNE.

CHAPTER VI. THE SECRET OF THE DERELICT.

CHAPTER VII. AN INSULT TO THE FLAG.

CHAPTER VIII. THE BOYS MAKE AN INTERESTING DISCOVERY.

CHAPTER IX. ON SPECIAL DUTY.

CHAPTER X. A BATTLE IN THE DARK.

CHAPTER XI. ON SECRET SERVICE.

CHAPTER XII. PLAYING WITH EDGED TOOLS.

CHAPTER XIII. PRISONERS OF WAR.

CHAPTER XIV. A DRUM-HEAD COURT-MARTIAL.

CHAPTER XV. A SHELL FROM THE SEA.

CHAPTER XVI. THE BOMBARDMENT.

CHAPTER XVII. UNDER THE GOLD-STARRED FLAG.

CHAPTER XVIII. A BOARD OF STRATEGY.

CHAPTER XIX. THE SEA FIGHT OFF SANTA ANNA.

CHAPTER XX. TORPEDOES.

CHAPTER XXI. VICTOR AND VANQUISHED.

CHAPTER XXII. AN ORDER TO HALT.

CHAPTER XXIII. WITH THE COSTAVEZAN CAVALRY.

CHAPTER XXIV. NED’S HEROIC DEED.

CHAPTER XXV. HOMEWARD BOUND—CONCLUSION.

AS HERC SPOKE THE BRIGHT RAYS ENVELOPED THEM.

CHAPTER I.THE FOREIGN AGENT.

“Pardon me—but surely I am not mistaken,—you two young men are brave sailors on board the Beale?”

“Hum; don’t know about the ‘brave sailor’ part of it,” smiled Ned Strong pleasantly, as the dark-skinned speaker halted him and his companion Herc Taylor in the shadow of the gray wall of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. “We are on board the Beale, though, or will be shortly.”

The man who had addressed the two stalwart, sunburned young fellows wearing the natty uniform of Uncle Sam’s sea-fighters flourished his silver-headed cane as if in token of having attained an object.

“The Beale—the torpedo-boat destroyer?” he asked, as if he were anxious to make quite sure of his ground.

“Yes, sir,” said Ned, briskly taking up his suit-case, as if about to start off again. He had set down the piece of baggage when the stranger first addressed them.

“One moment,” demanded the fashionably dressed first speaker, who spoke with a trace of foreign accent, “since you are on board that craft, you must come with me.”

Ned looked astonished at the other’s brusque manner of address. As for Herc Taylor, the red-headed, his freckles shone pinkly under his tan.

“I guess you’re a foreigner, sir, aren’t you?” he asked gently.

“Why, yes, senor,” the other twisted his little waxed mustache nervously, “but I——”

“I guessed it,” went on Herc serenely, “because in the United States we have a foolish habit of saying ‘please’ if we wish anything done.”

“Well, ‘please,’ then, senor. Come, I wish to talk with you, please. I know a place, not equal to the Hotel Espanola, perhaps, but where we can get a good drink——”

“Count us out then,” snapped Ned sharply, “we don’t drink.”

The stranger placed his thumb and forefinger together, elevated them to a level with his chin and, after gazing at them for a second, gave a light:

“Pouf!”

“He’ll blow away if he does that again,” muttered Herc. But apparently the man of the waxed mustache had been only taking this way of dismissing any possible offense he might have caused. He bowed low.

“Ah, well, I have made a mistake, I see. Of course not. Zee brave sailors of the Uncle Sam do not drink, nevaire. Perhaps, then, you will do me the honor of accompanying me to that drug store at the corner. I see they sell ice-cream sodas there. Will you try one of those?”

This was touching Herc Taylor in a weak spot. He gazed at his companion inquiringly. But Ned Strong’s eyes were riveted on the small wicket gate which opened in the long, gray-painted wall, a few feet from where they were standing. The wall inclosed the humming hive of activity known as the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Inside the gate stood a marine, sharply scanning all arrivals. It was his duty to protect the gateway to one of Uncle Sam’s ship hospitals, where everything from a rib to a rivet can be adjusted or replaced, even on the largest Dreadnoughts.

“We ought to report at ten-thirty. It’s ten now,” he said, gazing at a handsome gold watch he had just drawn out of his breast pocket. Inside the case it bore an inscription, “Presented to Ned Strong from Henry Varian, in slight token of the inestimable services rendered by him at Guantanamo, Cuba.”

Readers of the “Dreadnought Boys on Battle Practice” will recall the occasion which Mr. Varian, the inventor of the powerful explosive Chaosite, had thus chosen to commemorate. The watch had been presented to Ned Strong, as an ordinary seaman on board the big Dreadnought Manhattan. At the risk of his own life he had saved Mr. Varian from some rascals who had abducted him, and under the threat of blowing him up, had tried to compel the inventor to give up the formula of his explosive and the blue prints of a patent gun-breech of his devising for handling the stuff. It was Ned Strong’s ingenuity and pluck, it will be recalled, which had resulted in the plans of these men being a complete failure, and in their all being sentenced to long prison terms.

Closely following on this adventure, for which he received the congratulations of his own commander and also of the rear-admiral of the fleet, Ned Strong and Herc Taylor had behaved with singular gallantry just after the eruption in the forward turret of a dreaded “flareback.” At great risk they closed the safety doors, which had jammed, and then carried several unconscious men, including Lieutenant Timmons, the officer in charge, from the inferno of smoke and deadly gas. For this, readers of that volume will recall, both had been awarded medals of honor. Thus, in a few short months following their enlistment from the remote New York State village of Lamb’s Corners, both had become national heroes—that is, during the brief period of public memory. Had the recollection of their gallant deed not died out in the public mind, it is doubtful if the man who had accosted them would have chosen just these two youths who had so fully deeded their lives to their country and their flag.

“All right, we will go with you,” said Ned briskly, as if he had suddenly come to some private conclusion.

“Ah, zat is good,” smiled the dark-skinned individual. “I am glad you have come to zat determination.”

He started briskly off, headed for the drug store and followed by the two young man-of-war’s men.

As the boys were a short distance behind him, they had an opportunity to exchange a word or two as they went.

“Say, Ned,” began Herc, in a tone of remonstrance, “what’s the matter with you?”

“You don’t like the looks of that fellow?”

“No more than I like the looks of a skunk with its tail swung toward me.”

“Hush, he may hear you. I’ve got a good reason for going with him.”

“All right, then. What you say goes.”

This brief exchange of words brought them to the drug store, the interior of which looked cool and inviting, in contrast with the glaring sidewalk, for it was a hot day in early June.

Presently the trio were seated at a small table in the rear of the store, which was empty for the moment of customers.

“Ah, that sounds good,” exclaimed Herc approvingly, as the long, cool fizz-z-z-z of the fountain announced that their refreshments were being drawn.

The stranger bent forward as the red-headed lad spoke, and in a cautious voice said:

“But I have something to talk to you about which will sound bettaire.”

“So?” said Ned carelessly, as the soda glasses were placed in front of them, and Herc at once buried his nose in pink, creamy foam, “What is it?”

“Hush! Do not speak so loud. I don’t want it that any one should hear us.”

“Oh, then, it’s sort of secret business?”

“Zat is eet. You are a young man of penetration.”

“You’d say so if you saw him wading into any one he doesn’t like,” grinned Herc, setting down his empty glass and investigating its depths with a spoon.

The clerk was instantly at his elbow. The stranger looked up angrily at the store attendant.

“What are you doing listening here?” he demanded sharply.

“I wasn’t listening,” expostulated the aggrieved clerk, “I came to see if this gentleman wanted any more.”

“Bring us all three some, and then keep away,” grunted the black-mustached foreigner aggressively.

“Make mine vanilla this time,” ordered Herc.

“One nevaire knows who may be a spy,” explained the stranger, as the clerk brought the new order, and then busied himself, out of earshot, in the front of the store.

“Well, we’re not afraid of any spies,” returned Herc Taylor, giving the stranger a searching look.

“Oh, no, of course not. Zee brave sailor of Uncle Sam——”

“Never mind that,” interrupted Ned, “you brought us here, you said, to talk to us about something important—what?”

“You young men have heard of the Republic of Costaveza?”

“Of course, that tamale-eating South American merry-go-round,” blurted out Herc, “that’s where the Beale is bound for—so I heard,” he added rather confusedly. He had caught Ned’s eye, and he thought it held a reproof for his outspokenness.

“You are pairfectly right,” assented the other. “Now, there is an opportunity to make what you call zee big money down there, for two bright young men like you.”

“How?” inquired Ned bluntly.

This directness seemed to confuse somewhat the dark-skinned man, who, like most of his race, which was Latin-American, preferred intrigues and dark hints to coming straight to the point.

“Why,” he began, and then paused, as if searching for a word, “by—by keeping zee eyes open.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Let me explain. The Republic of Costaveza is now in a state of revolution.”

The boys nodded.

“The United States government is not friendly to the rebels, but dare not show zat this ees the case. It would not be consistent with her policies to interfere.”

“Well, what’s all this got to do with us?” asked Ned in the same direct way. He was growing to like the mysterious manner of the stranger less and less.

“Wait a moment, and you will see. In Costaveza there are, however, many very important American interests—mining, lumber, asphalt and so on. In the event of the rebels gaining power—which Heaven soon send—the policy of the new government would be Costaveza for the Costavezans. You follow me?”

“You mean that if the rebellion succeeds the property of the Americans, which they have paid for and developed, will be confiscated. Is that it?” questioned Ned.

“Exactly. Now, as I said, the United States dares not openly interfere. Her treaties with other nations prevent that. But just the same, she wishes to look after her citizens.”

“You bet she does,” put in Herc fervently.

“Now, the rebels are well armed. They have modern guns and equipment of every kind. Where has this been coming from?”

“Search me,” blurted out Herc, on whose freckled countenance the other’s dark eyes had fixed themselves.

“Hush, Herc!” reproved Ned. “Go on, sir.”

“It has come from the outside, from the good friends of the rebellion. Now, the only way to prevent the rebels winning the day is to head off their arms. Therefore, the American government sends a destroyer down there to guard her interests—but secretly, mind you.”

“Why don’t they send the fleet down there and blow the rebels into the sea?” asked Herc, who had not noted a fact which Ned’s keen observation had instantly taken in, and that was that the dark-skinned man was decidedly pro-rebel in his feelings. Carefully as he had tried to mask it in his talk, this fact stuck out to Ned as plainly as the nose on his face.

“That would not be diplomacy,” rejoined the stranger airily.

“No, but fine judgment,” added Herc sagely.

“Now, the point is this,” resumed the stranger, not noticing, or not deigning to notice, Herc’s remark, “we want to know what is going on on board the Beale every moment that she lies off the coast of Costaveza.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” thought Ned to himself. But aloud he said innocently:

“Did you say we, sir?”

“Yes. Why should I disguise it?” said the stranger, his eyes lighting up enthusiastically. “I am a patriot. The heart of Jules Charbonde bleeds for his unhappy country, and so——”

“And so, being a patriot yourself,” snapped out Ned, with blazing eyes, “you have come to ask us to betray our country.”

“Oh, no. Do not use so harsh a word, I beg of you. Not betray, but report what she is doing.”

“That is a very fine distinction,” said Ned in musing tone. The other, struck by his thoughtful tone and posture, too hastily assumed that his errand was complete. He extended a roll of bills and shoved them across the table, having first cautiously looked around him.

“You will make your reports when you arrive at Boca del Sierras, the principal city of Costaveza,” he said, “when your shore boat docks, a man will approach you and say, ‘A carriage, senors.’ You will go with him, and he will bring you to a place outside the city. Then you can make your reports, and——”

“Then we get more money?” inquired Ned in level tone, although danger signals gleamed in his eyes.

“Why, yes. You see, your services will be very valuable. You can keep us informed of every move of the Beale. But now place that money in your pocket.”

“I don’t think so; I’ve another use for it,” said Ned quietly.

“Another use for it, senor, why——”

“This!” shot out the Dreadnought Boy, springing to his feet and flinging the roll of bills at the South American agent. It hit the dark-skinned fellow full in the face, and with such force was it hurled that a dark patch burned out against his countenance where it had struck. Jules Charbonde’s skin went a sickly yellow. His eyes glittered as balefully as a serpent’s.

“So,” he snarled, “you insult a South American gentleman?”

“Gentleman!” scoffed Ned, “We’ve another name for fellows who practice your sort of trade.”

The clerk, alarmed at the sound of loud voices, came hastening up.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded.

“How much is the bill?” asked Ned.

“Sixty cents. You had——”

“Here’s a dollar. Never mind the change. Come, Herc, let’s get out of here, or I’ll feel tempted to give that fellow a lesson.”

Together the two Dreadnought Boys hastened from the drug store, but the eyes of Jules Charbonde followed them with a menacing glint.

He raised his hand to his face, where the red spot still showed angrily.

“I’ll make you sorry for this,” he snarled, in his turn leaving the shop.

Suddenly he wheeled sharply. A hand had been laid on his elbow.

“I’d like to speak to you a minute,” said a low voice almost in his ear.

CHAPTER II.A WILLING TOOL.

Charbonde found himself facing a rather undersized youth of about the age of the two who had just left him. The newcomer had furtive, rat-like eyes, and a sharp face filled with a general expression of low cunning.

“Who are you?” demanded Charbonde. “I don’t know you.”

“I know you don’t,” responded the other easily, “and yet, I may be able to help you.”

“Bah!” began the foreign agent, trying to shake off the hand laid on his arm.

“Wait till you hear what I have to say,” resumed the other eagerly. “I hate those two blue-jackets who have just left you.”

A new light suddenly shone in Senor Charbonde’s eyes. He began to regard the furtive-looking youth with more interest.

“Who are you?” he demanded cautiously.

“My name won’t mean much to you. It’s Harkins—Henry Harkins. I was formerly in the navy, but I was dishonorably discharged, owing to those two fellows. I hate them.”

The tone in which this communication was made left no doubt of the speaker’s sincerity. His mean face grew positively wolfish as he spoke. Not even in his days aboard the Illinois, when he had joined Kennell, the ship’s bully of the Manhattan, and the other miscreants in abducting Ned and Mr. Varian, had Hank Harkins ever looked more despicable. For his part in the conspiracy, as our former readers know, Harkins, who hailed from the same village as the Dreadnought Boys, had been dishonorably discharged from the service. That the world had not gone well with him since then was manifest. His clothes were old and worn, and lines, which did not look well on a youthful countenance, marked his features. As Charbonde gazed at the figure before him, a sudden thought came to him. Here, ready-made to his hand, was a tool that he might find useful.

“So you would like to have an opportunity to avenge yourself on those two lads, is it not so?” he said slowly.

“I’d do almost anything to get even with them,” muttered Hank. “They are the cause of all my misfortunes. I’ve been broke for weeks, and have hardly known what it was to have a square meal.”

Hank did not think it necessary to add that his misfortunes, like his dishonorable discharge, were all of his own making. His father, sorely tried though he had been by the boy’s unsavory escapades, had written him to come home to the farm, but this Hank had refused to do permanently. Life in and about New York suited his vagabond disposition too well for that.

“Ah, you need money,” exclaimed Senor Charbonde.

“Yes, yes,” ejaculated Hank in a voice that came dangerously near to being a beggar’s whine. But if he thought Senor Charbonde was going to be so prodigal with his funds as to hand him a crisp bill, he was mistaken. Instead, the South American revolutionary agent tore a sheet out of a notebook he fished from his pocket and handed it to Hank, who gazed at it eagerly. It bore an address on West Fourteenth Street, New York,—that of a hotel famous as a rendezvous for foreign secret agents.

“Be there at three o’clock this afternoon, and perhaps I can put you in the way of making a little money.”

With these words Senor Charbonde swung on his carefully polished boot heel, and, twirling his stick gayly, started at his best pace to leave behind what was, to his fastidious taste, a very unsavory portion of the town. Hank, however, after a moment’s interval, had appraised the other’s prosperous appearance and pattered rapidly after him on his thin-worn shoe soles.

“Suppose you give me a little in advance?” he asked impudently.

The South American hesitated.

“Ah, well, perhaps it will bind him more closely to me,” he thought the next instant. Once more his jeweled hand dived into his pocket, and this time it produced a roll of bills—the same which was responsible for the pinkish mark on his yellow skin. Hank’s eyes glistened as they fell upon the dimensions of the roll. Eagerly he watched the other peel off a five-dollar bill.

“Thank you, thank you!” he exclaimed in a servile, fawning way, as Charbonde handed it to him.

“There is a fellow who would do anything for money,” thought the South American, as he resumed his way. “I have gained a valuable emissary.”

“That fellow’s a gold mine if he’s worked right. I’m in luck, and I’ll have a chance to get even with those two pious, psalm-singing lunk heads,” was Hank’s thought, as he shuffled off. An alliance had just been formed which boded ill for the Dreadnought Boys.

Hank made his way down the street past the gray walls fencing off the navy yard, and after walking two or three blocks turned into a drinking resort frequented by sailors and dock denizens. Hank flung down the bill he had just received in front of the proprietor.

“Take what I owe you out of that,” he said grandiloquently. The other lifted his eyebrows in some surprise, and then, abstracting from it the small amount for which he had allowed Hank to become indebted to him, returned the change. As the money and bills were shoved across to Hank, a heavy-set man, who had been seated at a table in one corner of the place, arose and came over to him.

“Hello! messmate,” he exclaimed, “in luck, eh?”

“Why, hello, Jim Prentice!” exclaimed Hank, recognizing in the other a former fireman of the Illinois, “how goes it?”

“Pretty well, shipmate, but low water here,” said the other, tapping his pocket suggestively. “Can you loan a fellow a few dimes?”

“Loan!” exclaimed Hank, not best pleased at this encounter, “why, it may be months before I see you again. You’re going to sea soon, aren’t you?”

He glanced toward where the other had been sitting and noted a battered telescope grip reposing beside his vacant chair.

“Yes, and a fine old tea-kettle of a stoke hole I’m assigned to. Aboard the Beale, that destroyer, you know. To make matters worse, we’re for South America, I hear. It’ll fairly roast a man to work under forced draught in that climate.”

“The Beale, eh?” mused Hank. “That’s the craft those two fellows are assigned to.”

He said this in a low voice, and it escaped the other’s hearing altogether. Presently he added aloud:

“When do you sail?”

“Some time to-morrow. Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just curious, that’s all. So you need money, Jim?”

“Need it!” burst out the other, “why, boy, if shoes were five cents a pair, I couldn’t buy a heel. There’s my sister, too, Hank,” he went on in a serious voice, “she’s sick, and the doc says that she’s got to get away to the country or he won’t answer for her life. Oh, I’m up against it, all right, I tell you.”

A dim plan had begun to form itself in Hank’s mind as the other spoke, but as yet it had not assumed definite form. Instead, he remarked lightly:

“Oh, I guess it’ll come out all right, Jim. Here, take this”—he handed the other half a dollar—“and be here to-night at eight o’clock. I may have something to talk over with you.”

“All right, Hank, I’ll be here, don’t you worry.”

“So long, then,” exclaimed the other. “I’m off.”

With more energy than he had displayed for some time past Hank shot out of the door and off up the street. He spent his money to such good advantage that at the end of an hour he emerged from his small room in a rickety tenement,—which he preferred to an airy room and wholesome work on the farm,—with a clean collar and neatly slicked-down hair. His battered, broken boots, too, bore a glossy polish. But all Hank’s efforts to improve his appearance could not erase from his face that expression which instinctively made people loath and distrust him.

At the appointed time he was at the hotel mentioned by Senor Charbonde, and was closeted in deep consultation with that astute gentleman for an hour or more. When he came out his face bore a broad smile—or grin, rather, the former word hardly applying to Hank’s peculiar expression of satisfaction.

“So that’s the game, is it?” he muttered to himself, as he found his way to the crowded street. “Well, I’ll get the man you want and right on board the Beale, too, but you’ll have to pay for it, and pay heavy. Too bad, though, that the dago had to go and tell those boys about his plans. No use worrying about that, however. I guess I’m slick enough to fix them, or else——”

A cross-town car going in his direction passed before Hank had time to finish his train of thought. He swung himself on the back platform, but had hardly done so before he almost fell off again.

Facing him were the two last persons in the world he wished to see just then—Ned Strong and Herc Taylor. For their part, the Dreadnought Boys were almost as much astonished, though, of course, their feelings had a very different tinge.

The situation would have been embarrassing but for the fact that Hank, without a sign of recognition, dived rapidly forward into the crowd and soon was swallowed in a perfect sea of heads and shoulders.

“The last person I’d have thought of meeting,” gasped Ned.

“The last person I’d want to meet,” growled Herc, clutching an armful of bundles he held as vindictively as if he had Hank in his grip.

The Dreadnought Boys had been spending their last day ashore in getting a few necessities for the voyage.

“I noticed him in the crowd on the sidewalk before he boarded the car, and was going to draw your attention to him,” said Herc, “but I thought I must be mistaken.”

“What was he doing?”

“Why, he had just come down the steps of the Hotel Espanola.”

“The Hotel Espanola,” exclaimed Ned in an astonished voice. “Why, that’s the hotel that Charbonde mentioned this morning.”

“That’s right. By grandpa’s prize shoat, you don’t think Hank can be mixed up in that crooked South American thing?”

“I don’t know,” mused Ned slowly, as the car rattled along. “I’d be half inclined to believe anything of a chap who’d been dishonorably discharged from the United States navy.”