“Jack, this is glorious!”

“You may well say that, Tom. I’m enjoying myself as much as if I were on a vacation.”

At twenty-five knots an hour the White Shark was cutting along on her voyage to the south. The sea was smooth, but it rippled just enough for the brisk, salt-laden breeze to blow an occasional shower of brine over the two lads standing on the rounded back of the novel submarine craft.

It was the morning of the second day out. So far everything had gone without a hitch. The machinery was running so smoothly that Silas Hardtack had been left on watch in the engine room, while the boys came up on deck to inhale a whiff of the fresh sea breeze.

Mr. Chadwick was busy over some problems connected with a new type of threshing machine he was evolving for the use of the government in experimental work. Jupe was busy in his galley. From time to time, through a ventilator which was kept open while the White Shark was on the surface in fair weather, there floated up to the boys the rattle of dishes and the appetizing smells of the dinner that Jupe was preparing.

“I’ve got an appetite like a horse, Jack.”

“So have I. Nothing like what poets call the ‘balmy breeze’ to give you that.”

Through the open hatchway appeared another figure, that of Silas Hardtack. The old man was a practical navigator, and as he came on deck he brought with him his sextant.

“Eight bells,” he announced, “I’m going to shoot the sun.”

“Fire away,” chuckled Jack, “but don’t shoot it out.”

Old Silas raised the sextant to his eye and aimed it at the sun. Then he gazed at the marked arc of the instrument and made a swift mental calculation.

“How are we getting along?” inquired Jack.

“Wait till I get it worked out, Master Jack,” responded the old salt, “but we’ve been making twenty-five miles an hour for the last forty-eight hours. I only hope this weather lasts.”

“Same here; it’s important we should make a rapid run.”

“Yes; from what I know of those Cubans, they’re a bad lot when they get scrapping. But bless you, if we had the old Ohio along we could blow the whole island into the water if we wanted to.”

“I hope we wouldn’t want to do anything like that,” exclaimed Tom, “it must be a very interesting place to visit.”

“I read up on its history a bit before we left home,” put in Jack.

“Ah, and what do the books say about it?” asked Silas. “They’re mostly wrong, I suppose.”

“I’ll tell you what I remember, if you like,” volunteered Jack.

“All right, heave ahead, my hearty, but don’t make it too long; I’ve got to get back and give them engines a good drink of oil.”

“Cuba is the largest of the West Indian Islands,” began Jack. “It is very mountainous, but possesses few rivers of any size. The coasts are said to be very bad. Long reefs run far out to sea.”

“Aye, aye, I’ve been aground on one of ’em on the old Ohio,” struck in Silas.

“I hope we’ll not get into any trouble of that kind,” said Tom.

“The island, which is 43,500 square miles in area, was discovered by Columbus in 1492. The Spanish occupation dates from a short period after that time. There have been numerous revolutions. In fact, the history of the island appears to be one of unrest; but since 1898, when the United States intervened and freed Cuba, there has been much less trouble. Still, as you know from the papers, there has been plenty of unrest from time to time.”

“Are there any wild animals there?” asked Tom, who liked hunting.

“Very few. Wild pigs and a few deer. There are boa constrictors, though, and large lizards of various kinds.”

“How about gold or silver?”

“Very little. Not enough to make it profitable to prospect or mine for either of them. There is plenty of iron, though, most of the mines being located near to Santiago, at the mouth of which harbor, as you know, Uncle Sam’s navy licked the Spaniards off the face of the map.”

“I wish the old Ohio could have been there,” sighed Silas; “she’d have shown how Yankees can fight. Well, thank you, lad, for your yarn. Now I’ll get below. Don’t forget you relieve me in a short time.”

“We won’t forget, Silas. We’re anxious to see how far we’ve come.”

When they went below they found out. In the forty-eight hours or more that she had been under way, the White Shark had made twelve hundred miles, which Silas declared was a “bumper” run.

While he hastened forward to communicate the results of his observations to Mr. Dancer, Tom and Jack examined the chart which was still spread out. It showed that they were about off the “Capes.”

“It seems to me I read something about the Atlantic fleet being ordered to Europe before long,” said Jack. “What if they should be steaming out from the Capes now? You know they rendezvoused at Newport News.”

“Let’s get a glass and go on deck and see if we can sight anything,” suggested Tom. “If they are steaming to sea we ought to be able to see them.”

“All right. Just wait till I find out if everything is running smoothly and I’ll go with you. We don’t have to stand by for orders now.”

A thorough investigation was made by the young engineer, the result of which showed that everything was running in fine shape. Armed with the binoculars, the two boys went on deck. Tom was the first to gaze westward. Then came Jack’s turn.

Of course the shore was invisible, for their course compelled them to be many miles out at sea, but Jack thought he saw a dark blur on the horizon.

“Take a look, Tom,” he urged, “and see what you make it out to be. It looks like a steamer’s smoke.”

Tom took the glasses and gazed long and steadily in the direction Jack had indicated.

“It is smoke,” he announced presently. “Gee whiz, Jack, whatever is making it is coming toward us, too. What if they should be Uncle Sam’s ships steaming eastward!”

“In that case,” said a quiet voice behind them, “I think we should be justified in heading toward them and giving them a chance to look us over.”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” laughed Jack, for the newcomer was Mr. Chadwick, who had seen the boys going on deck with the binoculars and had arrived in time to overhear Tom’s last words.

“There are several columns of smoke,” cried Tom, after another long look.

“That appears to make it conclusive that it is the fleet,” said Mr. Chadwick. “I know they were to sail for the Mediterranean station about this time. Boys, we ought to have a fine marine spectacle. I’ll go below and consult Mr. Dancer.”

While he was below, the boys kept the glasses busy, focusing them on what were now, beyond a doubt, as many as a dozen columns of black smoke. Before long they could make out dark hulls and odd-looking masts rising above the horizon.

“Go below and tell them the news,” cried Jack, “and, oh, Tom, bring up the flag.”

He referred to the ensign which could be fitted into a socket astern when it was desirable to fly “Old Glory.”

Tom soon reappeared with Mr. Chadwick and old Silas. Mr. Dancer would not leave the wheel of his craft even to see a naval parade under such unique conditions. Of course the periscope afforded him a limited view of the inspiring sight.

Before long the monster war dogs were plainly visible and the glasses were no longer needful. There were eight of the ships—huge, formidable craft, painted the dull gray that is Uncle Sam’s fighting color. At the bow of each, as they came on, a creamy wave of foam curled up, and at the rails of the bridge of the foremost craft a group of officers could be seen pointing at the strange object their glasses had just “picked up,” and which “strange object” was, of course, the submarine White Shark.

The battleships were steaming “in column,” that is, in single file. Each preserved its correct distance from the other, varying hardly an inch as they progressed.

Right up alongside the leader of the column ran the little White Shark. From the vast, lofty decks of the battleship she must have looked like some marine monster with—by some Jonah-like miracle—a crew of men and boys on her curved back.

The jackies lined the rails in crowds as the big vessel drew up closer. Every one on board appeared to be aware of the presence of the submarine. Bright colored flags appeared in strings signaling from ship to ship the news.

Mr. Dancer ran the White Shark into what appeared to be quite dangerous proximity to the big craft. But fast as the battleships were steaming, the White Shark kept pace with them. From the bridge inquiries were showered as to the nature of the submarine and whither she was bound. To these, evasive answers were returned, as it was not deemed advisable for the destination of the submarine to be known.

All at once, as the tiny metal chip of a White Shark rushed along by the side of the huge leviathan of naval warfare, an object clothed in white fell from the stern deck. Like a flash it darted downward.

For an instant the watchers on the deck of the submarine thought something had been thrown overboard from the cook’s or quartermaster’s section of the ship.

But a moment later a booming, roaring cry ran along the battleship’s crowded decks. Her steam siren shrieked like the wail of a lost soul.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Jack.

“It’s a man overboard!” cried Silas. “That’s what it is!”