Chapter VIII: Pete Meets an Old Friend

Southward a dozen columns of smoke showed, but the ships were still hull-down as the three boys leaned on the rail and watched. They went forward and found the skipper and “’Erbert” gazing through their glasses. Lieutenant Cowan joined them, limping slightly from the effects of the injury to his leg, and took the binoculars the skipper proffered. Slowly the distant ships came up over the rim of the sea, bearing northeastward.

“Cruisers and convoys,” said the lieutenant, returning the glasses, “and one destroyer. They’re not American, sir.”

“Nor British,” replied the skipper.

“French, likely,” offered the mate. “But they’re not making for France.”

“They’ll pass us well to eastward, Lieutenant,” said the skipper, “and I’m doubting they’d want to stop, but if you say the word, sir, I’ll ask them to take you aboard.”

The lieutenant hesitated. Then, perhaps catching the eager looks on the faces of Dave and his companions, he smiled and nodded. “Do so, if you will, skipper. I’d like to get back and make my report as soon as possible.”

Followed signals with the _Arabella_, and half an hour later the two trawlers, having reached the end of their southward journey, parted company and the _Good Venture_ hurried eastward to intercept the long line of ships that were now in fair sight. There were seven in all, four of them medium-sized merchantmen, two light cruisers and one small destroyer. As they drew near every glass aboard the _Good Venture_ was in service, for every one was puzzled over the nationality of the ships.

At length the skipper lowered his binoculars. “Got them now, sir,” he announced. “Italian. Likely they’re out of their course by reason of keepin’ wide of the coast along of Spain. There’s been submarines very active west of Biscay of late. Now then, ’Erbert, look alive with them signals!”

“’Erbert” got immediately busy and a few minutes later, by which time the Italian ships were some two miles away, the ensign and code pennant were run to the spreader. After a minute or two the second cruiser answered and the mate bent on his signal flags with practiced fingers. “We want to speak to you,” announced the _Good Venture_. The cruiser answered “All right,” and wig-wagged to the destroyer, and the latter swung out of line and roared down on the trawler. As she came the skipper’s face was a study. “I say,” he appealed to the lieutenant, “’ow am I talk to the blighter, eh? It don’t ’appen that you know Italian, sir?” The lieutenant regretted that he didn’t. But he replied, “I’ll try him in French if you say so. He will probably understand.”

“Do that, sir. I speak French myself, in a manner o’ speaking, but it ain’t the sort an Italian would make out! And as for ’is own blinkin’ lingo, macaroni’s the only word I know.”

But, as it proved, the skipper’s alarm was unnecessary, for the young officer who roared across at them from the bridge of the destroyer spoke remarkably good English. The skipper sighed relievedly as he took the megaphone and answered, “We’ve got an American lieutenant and a dozen men, sir, from a submarine chaser as was blown up by a mine. Can you take ’em aboard?”

“With pleasure,” responded the other. “Please ask them to be quick, sir. Will you use your boat?”

“Yes, I’ll get them over in ’alf a jiffy. Greatly obliged, sir!”

Before he went over the side the lieutenant reimbursed the skipper for the clothes they were wearing away, taking the money from a belt about his waist. (“Me for one o’ them things,” whispered Pete enviously. “If I’d had one I’d be in mighty near four dollars right now!”) The skipper at first refused to accept payment, but at last consented and the lieutenant followed the men into the small boat. It was, Dave reflected, a fortunate thing that there was almost no sea, for that little tender was loaded down to the gunwales and shipped water whenever any of them took a deep breath. They waved good-by to their friends aboard the _Good Venture_ and were presently climbing over the side of the destroyer under the politely curious gaze of four officers and, it appeared, most of the ship’s crew. They soon discovered that knowledge of the English language was not general aboard the _Valgrana_ and until they went ashore at Portishead the next morning they had to make known their wants and conduct their conversation in the language of signs. But the petty officers and men with whom they came in contact were flatteringly cordial and made it clear that they were anxious to do anything and everything possible for the comfort of the visitors. One swarthy gunner’s mate was fortunate enough to speak a scant dozen words of English, and these, to the envy of his companions, he used incessantly, somehow managing to derive a vast amount of satisfaction thereby. “Uni’ Sta’es,” “Presidente Veelson,” “Betchoo life” and “Sure, Mike” were his best efforts. Italian food was strange but satisfying and the _944’s_ men were served by themselves and with some ceremony.

The _Valgrana_ had had a brush with a U-boat on the way north and the incident was described to them eloquently by waving hands and shrugging shoulders and expressive grimaces, together with a torrent of strange words, but, for his part, Dave didn’t get a very clear idea of that engagement. The destroyer followed her companion ships up the Mersey the next forenoon and they dropped anchor off Portishead about eleven, and the lieutenant led his disreputable crew ashore and herded them in the waiting room of a railway station. And there they stayed, observed with vast interest by most of the villagers, until they were piled into a train at about three and conveyed leisurely to Bristol. Owing to the fact that their mid-day meal had been extremely sketchy, they descended on a restaurant in Bristol like a horde of ravening locusts, and didn’t pause until they had worked devastation. How much their dinner cost the lieutenant Dave never learned, but it seemed to him that there could not have been much left in that money-belt afterwards!

They were billeted in a small and none too clean hotel for the night with permission to spend the evening as they liked but to be on hand at the station the next morning promptly at seven-thirty. As there wasn’t a cent amongst them, seeing the city promised to be a dull proceeding. However, Dave and Pete and The Pickle determined to make the best of a bad thing, and, if possible, derive some pleasure from an evening ashore. They were a trifle conscious of their unusual attire at first and were thankful when they reached a street sufficiently thronged to allow them to pass unheralded by all the small boys in sight!

“Being a fishwrecked shiperman isn’t what the stories make it out,” remarked Dill sadly. “I feel like something awful off a movie screen!”

“Gee, that would be great!” exclaimed Pete. “A movin’ picture show, eh?”

“Fine!” jeered Dill, “but just how do you think we’re going to butt in on a movie without a cent of money? We surely can’t get past on our good looks!”

“That’s all right, Pickle. First off, let’s find us a show. Do you guess these folks’ll understand United States?”

They did. At least the one Pete addressed himself to did, and he even walked a block with them to point out the way from the next street corner. They thanked him and followed the indicated course, Dave and Dill amusedly wondering what Pete had on his mind. A minute or so brought them to their destination and they pulled up outside while Pete looked the situation over. It seemed that in England a “movie” wasn’t a “movie” but a “cinema,” something that Pete objected to strongly. He likewise criticized the lamentable lack of flaming and enticing posters outside the entrance. Except for a few dim lights and a wicket doubtless indicating the presence of a ticket seller in the darkened depths beyond, they might easily have imagined themselves outside the entrance to anything save a “palace of amusement.” Evidently the rush was over for, save for a few small boys who viewed our friends with growing interest, the place was deserted.

“Like the looks of it?” asked The Pickle finally.

Pete shook his head. “It looks bum to me,” he said, “but you can’t tell. It might be all right inside. Come on.”

“Where? What are you going to do?” asked Dave, holding back.

“See the show,” said Pete. “Put a front on now and follow me up.”

Pete advanced to the wicket, the others close behind. In the gloom beyond it sat a girl and Pete made a sketchy bow. “Evenin’ an’ everything,” said Pete. “Me an’ my mates would like to see the pictures, Miss.”

The ticket seller fixed her eyes on the ledge, and then, as nothing in the shape of money appeared there, she asked sarcastically: “Well? This ain’t a free show, your Lordship.”

“Sure, we know that,” replied Pete ingratiatingly; “but you see, Miss, it’s this way. We’re American sailors and our boat was blown up by a mine a couple o’ days ago an’ we ain’t got no money. You can search us, honest! But you just pass us in, Miss, an’ we’ll be back an’ pay you, sure as shootin’. Or maybe we’ll send it to you.”

“American sailors, eh? You look it! Clear out before I ring for the doorman!”

“Honest, Lady――”

She must have rung, for the door swung open and a jovial and very red-faced individual in a white waist-coat and a top hat sidled into view.

“Now then,” he said cheerfully, “on your way, boys, on your way! Don’t be blockin’ the entrance an’ keepin’ the crowds back.”

“We’re the crowd,” explained Pete, “an’――” He stopped abruptly. Then: “Hello, Crim!” he blurted.

The man gazed at him in a puzzled way for a moment. Then recognition dawned slowly, and: “Why, ’tain’t――’tain’t ‘Rags’ Rooney?” he gasped.

“You got me, Crim, but lay off the ‘Rags’ stuff. I’m travelin’ first class now.” The two shook hands warmly. “What you doin’ here?”

“Showing Johnny Bull what a good cinema’s like, Rags. I’m running this joint. What’s your lay?” He looked curiously at Pete’s queer habiliments and then at his companions. Perhaps he was thinking that his old friend’s objection to the name “Rags” was not sustained by the evidence!

Pete explained briefly and airily, and Gus Crimmins’s eyes stood out further than usual, which means that they became positively protrudent. “Think of that!” he exclaimed. “You in the navy, Rags. Why, say, the last time I saw you――”

“Pipe down!” interrupted Pete sharply. “Ain’t I told you I’m out o’ that? Don’t you know a swell when you see one?” He swung around on a heel and struck an attitude, and Mr. Crimmins joined heartily in the laugh that followed. Introductions followed, and then Mr. Crimmins said:

“Well, what are we standing here for, boys? Come on in and see the show.” He held open the door and they passed through into the darkened theater, Pete bestowing on the young lady in the ticket booth a grave wink ere he disappeared. “Come in the office,” whispered the proprietor hoarsely, “and sit down unless you want to see the pictures. They’re old to you fellows, though, I guess. There’s a good one of Fairbanks coming on at nine, though; ‘The Mixer,’ ever see it?”

They followed to the tiny office at one side of the foyer, although, for his part, Dave would have preferred to have remained outside and watched the hilarious career of an elongated Frenchman who at the moment was clearing the roof of a Paris tram car of gendarmes by the simple expedient of kicking them into the street. Mr. Crimmins closed the door, found chairs for Pete and Dave, invited Dill to share the top of a little desk and beamed at his guests.

“Say, Rags――I mean――what’ll I call you? Pete, eh? Didn’t know in the old days you ever had a real name. Well, it’s good to see you guys. I get downright homesick sometimes for a sight of Catharine street and some of the old boys around there. I been away nearly six years now and I suppose the old town’s changed, eh? I ran a movie house in Syracuse and one in Harrisburg for a while and then a fellow told me there was big money over here and I thought I’d come over and see. Well, I ain’t done so bad, considering the war came along almost before I’d got well started. They’ll stand for most anything in this town, so long’s there’s a laugh in it. It’s the Wild West stuff they like best. They just eat it up. It don’t matter how old it is――older the better for that matter. I’m showing them stuff that’s so old the films are moldy! Now tell me about you. Where’d you cop the swell duds?”

During the subsequent talk, carried on for the most part by the theater proprietor and Pete, Dave gathered that Mr. Crimmins at the time of his acquaintance with Pete had been conducting a dime museum in lower New York, his attractions consisting principally of a tattoed boy and a snake charmer. Also, Dave gathered that Pete was a decidedly “tough” youth, with a propensity for fights, impromptu or arranged. Mr. Crimmins recalled feelingly a certain occasion when “Rags” had disposed of the pretensions of one “Feather” Cronin to the east side championship in seven rounds in the loft of Hennessy’s stable. During these revelations Pete seemed embarrassed and stole deprecatory glances at his chums and smiled a bit shamefacedly when he found Dave grinning at him.

Afterward they went outside again and saw the inimitable Mr. Douglas Fairbanks play the part of an acrobatic Providence in a southwestern mining town. At parting Mr. Crimmins begged them to come back and accept the hospitality of the Crimmins domicile on the first possible occasion. “Want you to meet the missis, boys, and see the kids. Say, those kids are all right, too. Three of ’em. Great little tykes. What do you say?”

They said they would, and then Mr. Crimmins shook hands all around, and they made their way back to their hotel through a darkened city, and lost their way three times in twenty minutes and might have been wandering around Bristol yet had they not encountered a gruff “Bobby” who, seemingly strongly inclined at first to arrest them as tramps, finally consented to give them the benefit of the doubt and direct them to their domicile. They slept like logs that night and the next morning started by train for Holyhead under charge of Quartermaster Barry. Lieutenant Cowan vanished and was not seen again until they had been back in Queenstown for several days. Kennedy said he guessed the Old Man was ashamed to be seen with them.

By the time the train――it was the fourth one they patronized that day――pulled unhurriedly into Holyhead they had, it seemed, visited every nook and corner of England――and parts of Wales! Still, they enjoyed it, for few of them had ever visited England and their journey took them past many interesting and picturesque places. At Holyhead they boarded a small steamer, with some two hundred other passengers, mostly women and children, and late in the evening stole forth without lights and breasted the waters of St. George’s Channel. The distance to Dublin, for that was their destination, was only fifty-odd miles, they were told, but the _Port Erin_ was old and decrepit and made the worst of a fairly rough sea. That wasn’t a pleasant night, for there were only a few berths and most of the passengers had to sit up or sleep wherever they could find a space in the crowded saloon. Many of the women were ill and the stewardess had her hands more than full. To Dave fell the duty of playing nurse to two small children, girls of four and five, while their mother, a young Irish woman, gave herself up frankly to the misery of seasickness. The Pickle lent awkward assistance, but Pete, in his own language, “ducked.” “I might talk to the King o’ England or the President,” he explained ruefully, “but kids get my goat right away. I never know what to say to them!”

The interminable voyage ended in the small hours of the morning, but no one landed until daylight. The three boys managed to snatch two or three hours of sleep after the _Port Erin_ reached the harbor, but at five-thirty they were seeking breakfast, and by seven were entrained again. They tried to get the quartermaster to miss a train so that they could look around the town, but he was visibly impressed with the importance of his duty and hustled them to the station at once. Irish railways strongly dislike straight lines, perhaps never having learned that they are the shortest distances between points. And the trains of Ireland are never bothered by the flight of time. It was pitch dark when the squad alighted at Queenstown and made their way to the new barracks, but the satisfaction of getting “home” again made up for everything.

The next day they presented themselves for new uniforms and outfits and received them, and they also, by some miracle of legerdemain on the part of Quartermaster Barry, received an advance of wages sufficient to add to the self-respect inspired by new togs. They had, I think, all been prepared to pose as heroes on their return, but, if so, they were disappointed, for by September such adventures as theirs had become unpleasantly common. The Pickle sadly opined that he guessed the only way to get your names in the papers was to be killed.

Efforts to discover what disposition was to be made of them were vain. No one seemed at all interested in them. They took their place among numerous other unattached “gobs,” with title to bunks in the barracks and three meals a day. Their companions from the _944_ disappeared one by one in a most mysterious fashion as the days passed, but the trio remained to kick their heels about the waterfront until――it was the fourth day after their return――an orderly appeared with a summons for Seamen Rooney and Garson to report to the admiral at headquarters.