"For a sail."

"In that old tub that is full of oil casks and the like?"

"Whistler Morgan!" breathed Torry in amazement, "how do you know at this distance what kind of cargo that boat has?"

"Why, she fairly reeks of oil!" said Whistler confidently. "See that streak along the water in her wake--that purplish, reddish streak?"

"I see it!" admitted Torry in a moment.

"Nothing but oil would do that. She's got leaky casks aboard. And where would an oil lighter be going out this way? Where is she coming from and where is she going? And what is that bewhiskered Blake doing aboard her?

Tell me that, will you?"

But the wondering and excited Torrance could not answer these questions.

CHAPTER VI

AN OLD FRIEND

Fishing rather palled upon both Whistler and Torry after sighting the other boat. The younger boys had not paid much attention to the pa.s.sing of the craft which Whistler was confident was an oil lighter of some kind.

"You're so plaguy suspicious, Whistler," muttered Al Torrance, as they heaved up the anchor and the younger boys hoisted the big sail.

"For all you know, that Blake may be as harmless as a baby."

"Sure," agreed Morgan. "But what's he doing out in that boat, and what is the boat itself doing out here? She's headed off sh.o.r.e--and you saw she was loaded. The water almost lapped over her rail."

"Well?"

"She surely isn't headed for the other side of the Atlantic," Whistler declared. "Yet she's aiming straight out to sea right now. She isn't following the coast any longer."

It was a fact. Although the strange power launch was now at a great distance, it was plain she was leaving the land behind her. There was no land in that direction save the European coast.

"You believe she's a supply ship for German subs?" asked Torry.

"Or taking out gasoline or oil to put aboard some Swedish or Norwegian ship that expects to give the cargo to the Germans at some rendezvous in the North Sea. That isn't impossible, Torry."

"Just the same I fancy you are hunting a mare's nest," his chum declared.

Torry--nor the other Navy boys--was not apt to call in question Whistler's judgment. But on this occasion it seemed to him as though Morgan was shooting wild.

Frenchy Donahue and Ikey Rosenmeyer had caught several fish and were satisfied; but soon they began to notice that their companions had something on their minds besides the catch of channel ba.s.s.

"What's bitin' you fellows?" demanded Frenchy. "Had a spat?"

"I bet they've had a lover's quarrel," grinned Ikey. "Ain't you going to speak to us, ever again, Torry?"

"Oh, my eye!" growled Torry.

But he and Whistler really had very little to say while the boat was running back into the cove. The wind was not so favorable, so it took a much longer time for the trip than it had to come out to the fishing grounds.

"But if we use a drop of his gas, old Cap Bridger will know it,"

grumbled Frenchy. "Maybe we'll have to row her in."

A little flicker of breeze helped after a while, however; but it was just then, too, and after they had rounded one of the crab-claw capes that defended the cove from the ocean, that Ikey sang out:

"What's this coming? Oi, oi! D'you see it, Whistler? It's a streak of light!"

The other boys turned to look seaward. Rushing in from that watery world was a gray shape--narrow, low-decked, with slight upperworks and a single stack.

"A chaser!" cried Torry, finding his voice and growing excited.

"She's aiming right this way," added Frenchy excitedly.

Phil Morgan had his gla.s.s out again, and his lips unpuckered and the tune he had been monotoning died.

"What do you make of her, Phil?" whispered Al Torrance.

"It is a sub patrol boat all right," agreed their leader.

Ikey, who had the tiller at this juncture, got so excited watching the swiftly approaching craft that he pretty nearly swung the _Sue Bridger_ in a circle.

"Look out, you chump!" yelled Torry. "Want to yank the stick out of her?

If you haven't a care Captain Bridger will get the price of a new catboat out of us."

Whistler gave Torrance the gla.s.s and went aft himself to relieve Ikey at the helm.

"You're a fine garby," called Donahue to Rosenmeyer. "Lose your head mighty easy. That chaser isn't chasing us."

"How do you know she isn't?" returned Ikey.

"She certainly is following us," Whistler said. "But until she bespeaks our attention with her forward gun I guess we need not worry," and he smiled grimly.

The boys watched the swiftly approaching boat. It came in through the narrows at top speed, circled around toward the docks, and pa.s.sed the catboat at a distance.

"'S. P. 888'!" yelled Torry. "Look there!"

"I thought it was that same chaser we saw before," Frenchy said.

"Wonder what she wants in here at Seacove?" Ikey asked.

Whistler had changed their course to bring the catboat nearer to the naval boat, which was slowing down. Torry leaped upon the low-decked cabin and began signaling by the semaph.o.r.e code. In his blue uniform his body stood out clearly against the catboat's sail, and he was at once observed by the crew of the S. P. 888.

"Whew! Look at that!" gasped Frenchy. "They are answering."

Then he and Ikey began to spell out the word that the seaman on the deck of the chaser was signaling in the same code Torrance had used.