"S. P., Eighty-eighty-eight."

CHAPTER V

THE STREAK ON THE WATER

The Navy boys arrived at the patch of shallow water over the Blue Reef at about noon. By that time the fog was pretty well dissipated, and they had a clear view of miles and miles of sea as well as of the coastline behind them and the narrow entrance to the cove.

The submarine chaser was out of sight. No other craft appeared upon the open sea beyond the _Sue Bridger's_ present anchorage. The boys threw out a little chum, and then dropped their hooks.

"First nibble!" whispered Torry. "Now watch me play him."

But the first few "nibbles" proved to be merely "hook-cleaners." The fish got the bait, and the boys had the exercise of swishing their lines in and out of the water.

Channel ba.s.s run to large sizes. Torry told about seeing one hung up on the dock at Seacove weighing sixty-four and a quarter pounds.

"That's all right," grumbled Frenchy, who had just lost a nibbler, "but a two-pound one will satisfy me. What would we do with a sixty-four-pound ba.s.s?"

"Keep it alive and teach it to draw a little red wagon," chuckled Ikey.

"Oi, oi! That would be fine!"

"It would be as big as Dugan's goat. Don't know why it shouldn't be tackled up and made use of," Whistler agreed, dryly.

"Only they lack feet--Gee-whillikins! what's this?" burst forth Torry.

He certainly had a bite at last. His reel hummed and the fish started for the coast of Spain; or, at least, in that general direction.

He had to play the fish well to save his line, for the latter was neither a very heavy one, nor new. The ba.s.s ran stubbornly out to sea.

"That's a whale, Torry," Whistler declared, breaking off in a military tune to make the observation. "You should have harpooned it."

"I'm going to get him aboard here if I swamp the boat!" declared Torry with vigor.

The boys were so interested in his playing the fish for the next ten minutes that they did not cast a glance sh.o.r.eward. Finally the ba.s.s was tired out, and Torry drew him in close to the boat. Whistler leaned over the side and, with a maul, tapped the ba.s.s on the head.

But when he got his hand in the gills of the fish they clamped down upon his fingers, and, in the struggle, he was almost hauled out of the boat.

"Hey! Help!" he bawled. "What are you fellows? Just pa.s.sengers?"

Frenchy gave him a hand on one side and Ikey on the other; between them the trio hauled a ten-pound ba.s.s over the gunwale. Torry was dancing around in glee and shouting at the top of his voice.

"Hush!" commanded Whistler. "You'll scare even the sharks and dogfish away."

"Or you'll dance through the rotten old bottom boards of the boat and we'll have to walk ash.o.r.e," added Frenchy.

But it was a great catch, and the others could feel nothing but envy of Torry's success. He had set a pace that none of them could equal; for after that there did not seem to be another ba.s.s of even two pounds'

weight in the whole ocean.

"Hey, fellows!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Ikey suddenly. "Who's this coming?"

"Somebody walking on the water, is it?" chuckled Frenchy.

"Aw, you needn't be correcting my English," responded Ikey. "There are no medals on you for being a purist."

"Wow, wow!" yelled Torry. "Listen to him sling language."

"Hold on, fellows," Whistler said, diving for the gla.s.s he never went to sea without. "That's no smack."

They all had turned to look at the approaching craft which Ikey had first sighted. It was a power boat and was running parallel with the coast in a southeasterly direction and insh.o.r.e of the anchorage of the _Sue Bridger_.

She was about forty feet long and was showing some speed; but her hull looked battered, and there was nothing natty or yacht-like about her.

"No pleasure craft, that," ventured Torry, as Phil trained his gla.s.ses on her. "She's too slouchy."

"She's got speed, just the same," observed Frenchy. "What's her name, Phil?"

"Can't make it out," returned Morgan. Then immediately he uttered a surprised e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n.

"What's up?" Torry asked him.

Whistler said nothing but he drew his chum up beside him and thrust the gla.s.s into his hand. "Look at that fellow," he commanded.

"Which fellow?" asked Torry trying to focus the gla.s.s on the strange craft.

"The man forward. He's looking this way. See! The man with the whiskers," whispered Morgan.

"I see him," returned Torry.

The other boys were giving more attention to their fishing again.

Whistler was very much in earnest, and he spoke softly in his chum's ear:

"You've seen him before. It's the man we saw in the bushes up there by the Elmvale Dam the other day. Remember, Al?"

"Gee! Yes!" breathed Torry.

"They told me his name was Blake. He doesn't look it," said Whistler earnestly. "He looks more like a German than Hansie Hertig--and that's enough!"

"Aw----"

"Of course, he can't help that," agreed Whistler before Torrance could voice objection. "But he is a stranger in Elmvale. He works at the munition factory. You'd think of course they'd be careful who they employ. But he wouldn't be the first alien that has been employed in such a factory."

"What are you driving at, Phil?" demanded his chum, much puzzled now.

"I found something up there near the dam that I didn't tell you fellows about. And it is something that I think that man's interested in. Now, what's he out here for?"