“Ever see him before?” asked Ned. “Never,” rejoined Herc positively. “Neither have I--of that I’m certain. I don’t like his looks much.” “Well, thank goodness, we don’t come much in contact with that collection of lubberly ash-hoisters to which he belongs,” grinned Herc. As usual, the red-headed lad spoke rather louder than he had intended. Just then a sudden lull came in the clatter and uproar of the last moments, and Herc’s words were distinctly heard by the other. He favored the two as he passed with a distinct scowl. “There you go again, Herc,” reproved Ned. “That fellow heard what you said.” “Well, he _is_ one, isn’t he?” demanded the irrepressible youth. “An ash-hoister, I mean.” “That’s no reason to tell him so. Now you, for instance----” A long blast from the _Beale’s_ siren interrupted him. Instantly boatswain’s mates’ whistles shrilled about the steel decks, and men scampered hither and thither, taking up their posts. Ned and Herc hastened to theirs, while the orders to “Cast off” rang out sharp and clear. Instantly, like big snakes, the hawsers squirmed inboard, while steam winches rattled furiously. On the conning tower stood the figure of Lieutenant Timmons, with Ensign Gerard, his second in command, beside him. “Ahead--slow!” he ordered. A quartermaster shoved over the engine-room telegraph, and the steel decks began to vibrate beneath the boys’ feet. A small navy tug had hastily hitched on to the _Beale’s_ “whale-back” bow, and hauled it round toward the river. Presently, however, this duty done, she, too, cast off. Thus left to her own power, the low, black destroyer glided out among the shipping on the East River, like a ferret slipping through a rabbit warren. “Hurray for going to sea on a sewing-machine!” grunted Herc sardonically, as the business of casting off being over, the Dreadnought Boys were free for a few minutes. “Say, Ned,” he remarked suddenly, after an interval spent in watching the busy shipping and the buildings along the shore, “I thought you said this boat could beat anything of her class afloat?” “So she can--twenty-nine knots,” rejoined Ned, briefly and comprehensively. “Hum! We’re crawling along like an old ferry boat.” “Well,” laughed Ned, “it’s a good thing, too. If we made speed in this crowded river, we might run into something.” “And sink them?” “No, hardly. Torpedo-boat destroyers aren’t built for that kind of work. The skin of this craft isn’t much thicker than that of an orange.” “Wow! Stop her!” exclaimed Herc. “What’s the matter?” “I’ve just remembered an important engagement ashore!” “Too late now,” laughed Ned, as they steamed through Buttermilk Channel and headed down the bay toward the Narrows. Brooklyn Bridge lay behind them like a rainbow of steel. “Say,” grunted Herc suddenly, as if the thought had just struck him, “it wouldn’t do for us to hit anything, would it?”