“I’m going to start right now,” he grinned. “No use getting sentimental about the old _Plymouth_ at this point. I’m going to start thinking about the _Lexington_ or the _Shangri-La_ or whatever aircraft carrier I’ll be on in a few months.” “Good idea,” March agreed, sitting beside the tall and gangling young man who now stared ahead at the Navy Yard. “But that’s one trouble right now, Scoot. Neither one of us knows exactly where he’ll be. If you knew exactly what ship you’d be attached to, you could make your thoughts more specific. When you get there, you know you’ll love her just as much as you’ve loved the _Plymouth_—more, in fact, because you’ll be flying at last!” “Yes, I know, but what about you?” Scoot asked. “I still can’t figure out why you want to be a pigboat man. And what can you dream about now as you look into the future? The name of some fish, that’s all.” “Sure, subs are named after fish,” March replied. “And they have some swell names, too—the _Barracuda_, the _Dolphin_, the _Spearfish_, the _Amberjack_!” “Yes, they sound all right,” Scoot grinned. “But what if you’re assigned to the _Cod_ or the _Herring_ or the _Shad_? No, I can’t figure out what you see in those stuffy, cramped, oversized bathtubs!” This light-hearted argument had been going on ever since March Anson and Scoot Bailey had been in the Navy together. Neither one minded the jibes of the other, but the dispute as to the respective merits of air and underwater craft never ended. “Cozy and snug,” March said stoutly, “that’s what subs are! Not cramped and stuffy! Why—they’re all air-conditioned now!” “Maybe so,” Scoot said, shaking his head, “but no air-conditioning can match the clear blue sky a couple of miles up there where I’ll be flying! Boy—what a chance! Just what I’ve always wanted!” Their departure from the cruiser _Plymouth_ was forgotten now as they thought of their futures. Only one aspect of that future was rarely mentioned by either of them, and they tried not to think too much about it. In their new activities they would not be together—these two who had been inseparable friends for so many long years. They had met in the first year of high school, back in that small Ohio city which now, during war, seemed so many miles and so many years away. Scoot had lived in Hampton all his life, but March had just moved there from the farm which his mother had sold when his father died. A widow with a son only thirteen years old could not run a 160-acre farm, she had decided, not if her son was to get the education she had determined he would have. So the farm had been sold, and Mrs. Anson and her young son had moved to the near-by city of Hampton. March started high school, and his mother went back to teaching, her profession before she married Clement Anson and settled down to farm life. The money from the farm sale was tucked away in the bank, to be forgotten until the time came for March to enter college.