"Blamed if I can see anything, old pal, except the blue expanse of water. Guess maybe you are dreaming, or perhaps old man Neptune, King of the Deep, has thrust one of the prongs of his trident up through the waves." Monaghan guessed his old "bunkie" was "seeing things." "Nothing of the sort," retorted Jay. "Now look again, old top, just where I tell you to." Thacker was positive he beheld some odd object on the crest of the sea probably two miles or more away. As they looked together again their old friend Fismes, dancing at their feet on the transport deck, manifested an interest in the proceedings by setting up a raucous barking. Good old Fismes! Once a mascot aboard a German cruiser, he had been flung to the embrace of old ocean's gray and melancholy waste on a fateful day when one of the dandy little American submarines, with a single sting from its scorpion-like torpedo chamber, had blown the Hun warship off the map of the world. Swimming in the water, all but exhausted, he had been picked up by the American crew of which Thacker and Monaghan were members. By right of their first aid measures he had been allotted to the two Brighton boys by common consent, and he, too, was coming along to America as the most treasured war trophy the two lads possessed. Through all the long days Fismes had been a close companion. Sleek and fat as a result of good care and plentiful food, he was a favorite among all the retiring service men. "Keep still, Fismes; no more subs, old boy," cautioned Jay, remembering how the dog invariably had kicked up all kind of canine didoes every time there had been a likelihood of "going into action," after he had "joined up" with Uncle Sam. "Do you see it now?" asked Jay with a show of impatience. Dick was scanning the skyline intently. "Sure, I get you, old man," he replied after closer scrutiny of the water. "Now I see it, sure as guns. About two points off the starboard quarter. What in the world is it?" he continued, shading his eyes with cupped hands the better to focus on the object. "Blamed if I know," answered Jay. "Wait a minute. I'll run down to quarters and get the glasses." Off he dashed with Fismes at his heels, leaving his chum standing at the rail. In a moment he was back with a burnished pair of binoculars which, once adjusted, he trained on the floating object in the sea. "Just what I doped it to be," affirmed Jay after one long look. "A masthead bobbing up and down in the water. Some old battered hulk of a ship that has sailed its last long voyage, sure as you are born." Dick reached for the glasses. "Let's have a look," he requested. Jay extended the binoculars, and it took only one hurried glance on the part of his chum to corroborate the former's surmise.