Chapter 9

SUBMARINES, BULLPUPS, AND OTHER THINGS



A long, weird blast from the fog horn, followed by two short, sharp toots, recalled Barry from his morning dream.

"Fog," he grumbled, and turned over to re-capture the enchantment of the Athabasca rapids, and his dancing canoe.

Overhead there sounded the trampling of feet.

"Submarines, doc," he shouted and leaped to the floor broad awake.

"What's the row?" murmured the M. O., who was a heavy sleeper.

For answer, Barry ripped the clothes from the doctor's bed.

"Submarines, doc," he shouted again, and buckling on his Sam Brown, and seizing his lifebelt, he stood ready to go.

"What! your boots off, doc?"

In the orders of the day before had been an announcement that officers and men were to sleep fully dressed.

"Oh, the devil!" exclaimed the doctor, hunting through his bedclothes in desperation. "I can't sleep in my boots. Where's my tunic? Go on, old fellow, I'll follow you."

Barry held his tunic for him.

"Here you are! Wake up, doc! And here's your Sam Brown."

Barry dropped to lace the doctor's boots, while the latter was buckling on the rest of his equipment.

"All right," cried the doctor, rushing from the room and leaving his lifebelt behind him.

Barry caught up the lifebelt and followed.

"Your lifebelt, doc," he said, as they passed up the companion way.

"Oh, I'm a peach of a soldier," said the doctor, struggling into his lifebelt, and swearing deeply the while.

"Stop swearing, doc! It's a waste of energy."

"Oh, go to hell!"

"No, I prefer Heaven, if I must leave this ship, but for the present, I believe I'm needed here, and so are you, doc. Look there!"

The doctor glanced out upon the deck.

"By Jove! You're right, old man, we are needed and badly. I say, old chap," he said, pausing for a moment to turn to Barry, "you are a dear old thing, aren't you?"

The deck was a mass of soldiers struggling, swearing, fighting their way to their various stations. Officers, half dressed and half awake, were rushing hither and thither, seeking their units, swearing at the men and shouting meaningless orders. Over all the stentorian voice of the sergeant major was vainly trying to make itself understood.

In the confusion the cry was raised: "We're torpedoed! We're going down!"

There was a great rush for the nearest boats. Men flung discipline to the winds and began fighting for a chance of their lives. It was a terrific and humiliating scene.

Suddenly, over the tumult, was heard a loud, ringing laugh.

"Oh, I say, Duff! Not that way! Not