“And if you show yourselves capable, and learn quickly,” their friend, the sergeant, told them, “you’ll soon be earning more. Ordinary seamen get $20.90 a month, seamen $24.60, and—”
“Say, what do gunners get?” asked impulsive Ned.
“Well, anywhere from $1,500 to $2,400 a year,” he answered. “And I want to say right now that if a lad is qualified he can get to that post, if he works hard.”
“Then I’m going to work hard!” declared Ned.
“That’s the kind of talk we like to listen to,” commented the sergeant. “Aim as high as you can, and hit the bull’s-eye!”
“Huh! Some folks are trying to crow before they’re out of the shell very long,” remarked a red-haired recruit, with a rather unpleasant face. He had seemed sullen ever since arriving at the training station, and the remarks of Frank and Ned seemed to anger him.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked the sergeant. “Some one step on your corns?”
“No, but it makes me mad to hear kids that don’t know a half hitch from a square knot talking about getting in the gunners’ class!”
He glared rather vindictively at our two friends, though they did not know of anything they had done to merit his displeasure. His name was Henry Dell, but he called himself “Hank.”
“That’s the sort of lad who is looking for trouble. Steer clear of him,” counseled the sergeant in a low tone to Frank and Ned, as he led them toward the mess hall where they would have their meals.
“Say, Frank, when do you think we’ll really go on board a battleship?”
Ned asked this question of his brother, who was busy writing to his uncle, in the federal prison, telling the unfortunate man something of their new life.
“On the battleship?” repeated Frank, as he sealed the missive. “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised if it were very soon now.”
“Really?” cried Ned in incredulous delight. “How do you know?”
“Oh, well, rumors have been going around that some of the more advanced of us would be given our chance soon.”
“So I understand. We’ve worked hard enough, haven’t we?”
“We sure have! But that doesn’t always count.”
“Well, I think we are slated for the _Georgetown_ all right,” Frank said.
“What! That magnificent new battleship?” cried Ned, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.
“That’s the one, and it’s the very last word in battleships,” Frank went on.