Chapter II: The New “gob”

At first Dill, still smarting under Kennedy’s squelching, was suspicious, but presently he thawed out and they got on famously. As near as Dave could determine from Dill’s story, the latter had entered the Naval Reserve principally because he hadn’t wanted to return to college in the fall.

“I didn’t do very well last year,” he confided, “and I’d have had to make up two studies if I’d gone back. Besides, I’m no ‘grind,’ anyway. Haven’t enough brain, I suppose. So when this thing broke loose I put it up to my dad. Showed him I’d be more use ‘strafing’ Germans than faking along for a college degree. He said he guessed I was right. Said he understood it didn’t take much brain to shoot a gun and that I might make quite a success of it. Of course, he wanted me to enter the army. Was keen on having me go to Plattsburg, you know, and learn how to polish a sword. But, gee, I’d make a peach of an officer, wouldn’t I? So I heard about the reserves and hiked down to Newport. They gave me the once over and said ‘Come right along in.’ Dad was mad at first. Said he didn’t want me to be a common sailor, and a lot like that. I told him I guessed I’d be a rather uncommon sailor, not knowing whether salt water was something to gargle with or to put in your eye, and he finally came around. I had two months of it at the Newport Station, and it was all to the merry. There were some fine lads there. Then they shipped a bunch of us to New London, where we bunked on a wharf and made steel nets. I was there about ten days when they yanked a lot of us away and shipped us over here on a transport. We were told we were to fill vacancies on the destroyers, and I was crazy to get on one of ’em, but I lost out. Still, this isn’t bad. I dare say that I’ll see just as much fun on this boat as on a destroyer, eh?”

“I think you may,” agreed Dave. “Did the other chap come over with you?”

“Carter? Yes. I didn’t know him, though. Never really noticed the chap until we landed on the dock here yesterday. He says he was at the station when I was, but I don’t remember him. Guess I’ll go and see if I can do anything for him. He’s horribly sick, poor fellow.”

“I’ll go along,” said Dave. “Seasickness doesn’t seem to bother you much.”

“Me? No, I’ve never been sick yet. I read once that you had to have imagination in order to be seasick. Don’t know if it’s so, but I never did have any imagination and I’ve never been sick; and there you are!”

They found some half dozen men in the fo’c’sle, among them Chuck Morgan. One or two were reading, but the others were listening to Chuck and appeared to be amused at his remarks. As Dave and his new acquaintance entered Chuck was holding forth as follows:

“Yes, sir, there’s nothing better than a fine mess of salt pork and greens for seasickness. There’s something about ’em that just reaches the spot. You take a fine big chunk of pork, good and fat, fellers, and you put it in a kettle with some water and you let it boil slowly. When there’s about a half an inch of grease floating around on top the water you put in your greens and you boil the whole mess for about two hours. Then you slap a lot of the greens on a plate and cut off three or four slices of nice juicy fat pork and you get some one to hold your head up for you――”

Chuck was interrupted by a heart-rending groan from the upper bunk behind him. He grinned broadly and winked at the audience.

“――And then you take one of those nice fat slices of greasy pork,” he continued, “and sort of chew on it――”

“Cut it!” Dill pushed his way around the table and confronted Chuck with blazing eyes. “You big slab-sided, wall-eyed, knock-kneed giraffe, you! You pin-head! You vitrified lump of paleolithic pulp! Just open your dirty mouth again, you button-eyed Swede, and I’ll bust you square open! You’ve got a cheek, anyhow, sitting up and making sounds like a man, you lacertilian skunk! You ought to be climbing a tree in a glass case, with a label on, you stuffed anthropoid ape! What do you mean by getting out and running loose? Back to the museum, you!”

Chuck Morgan’s face was a study. Blank amazement passed into a sort of awe as Dill rained words on him without pause. His mouth dropped slowly open and he gazed up at the fluent youngster in silent, fascinated bewilderment, as yet too stupefied to be angry. As Dill ended, more for want of breath than lack of words, there was a brief instant of silence. Then a veritable howl of laughter arose in the fo’c’sle, in which Dave joined. Then Chuck’s mouth closed, a flood of red flamed into his lean, sallow face, and he jumped to his feet, overturning the bench.

“Who you calling an ape?” he demanded. He towered over Dill by six inches, but the recruit held his ground, paying no heed to the big, clenched hand that Chuck swung back menacingly.

“You, you arboreal quadrumane! And I’m paying you a compliment, too! Put that arm down or I’ll break it! You can’t scare me, you apotheosized protoplasm! You know what you are? Well, you’re a newt, a plain, ordinary newt! You’re not even a gecko! Just a newt!”

That was too much for Chuck. With a roar of rage he flung himself on Dill. “Newt, am I?” he shrieked. “I’ll show you――”

What happened next was as extraordinary as it was unexpected. Chuck went backward over the overturned bench and landed with a shock that for the moment deprived him of the powers of speech or action. Dill jumped nimbly after and shook a stern finger above his prostrate foe. “Yes, sir, a newt!” he declared triumphantly. “An aquatic-tailed, amphibian newt! And don’t you deny it! Don’t you open your mouth to deny it! Don’t even think of it! You’re a common garden newt, always was, and always will be! Just newt! That’s you, just newt!”

The onlookers were holding their sides now, and the little fo’c’sle was noisy with laughter as Chuck, visibly shaken and perplexed by what had happened to him, slowly climbed to his feet and subsided on the edge of a bunk. He stared gloweringly at Dill, but there was profound respect in his gaze. Then, sensing the ridicule in the laughter, he snarled at the others:

“Oh, shut up,” he growled. “I’ll fix this kid all right, and I’ll fix you guys if you laugh at me! He’s crazy, he is!” He observed Dill again, wonderingly. “He――he don’t talk sense! But I’ll get him, see if I don’t!” Chuck arose stiffly and made his way around the further side of the table, his eyes furtively watching Dill. “No one can call me a newt and get away with it!”

“Don’t you dare say you aren’t!” thundered the youngster, shaking a finger across the fo’c’sle. “Can you look me in the eye and deny it? You can’t do it! You’ve got every mark of a newt! Look at those ears! Look at that nose!” Dill’s voice arose triumphantly. “Look at those feet! Newt’s feet! Newt’s feet, by jiminy!”

“Aw, shut up, you――you――” Chuck’s voice positively wailed, but the right epithet failed him and he launched himself up the companion-way with incoherent sounds of rage. A broad smile enveloped Dill’s round countenance and he chuckled. Briggs, rubbing a sleeve across his streaming eyes, said chokingly: “Jack, you’re all right! After this you talk all you want to, ’cause you’ve certainly got the knack of it! I wouldn’t have missed Chuck’s face for a million dollars!”

“Yes, but say, kid, what did you do to him?” asked another. “You didn’t hit him, did you?”

“No, I just gave him a leg,” replied Dill, modestly. “I used to wrestle a bit in college.”

After that night The Pickle had no more troubles. And, since he let it be understood that Carter was a particular crony of his, no more did the second new member of the _944’s_ crew. Carter recovered from his illness the next day and, while he still looked extremely pale and shuddered at sight of the morning beans and bacon, was able to go on duty. Chuck Morgan let The Pickle severely alone, but he was frequently seen observing the youngster surreptitiously in a puzzled way that showed he had not lost interest in him. No one aboard took Chuck very seriously, but Kennedy advised Dill to keep his eyes open. “He’s not likely to stand up to you, Pickle, but he might drop a cartridge box on your foot, or some little joke like that. He was asking me yesterday what a newt was.” Kennedy chuckled. “I didn’t tell him because I didn’t know. What is it?”

Dill explained and Kennedy looked disappointed. “Is that all?” he asked. “Well, Chuck thinks it’s something pretty fierce, I guess. He didn’t seem to mind the other things you called him, but ‘newt’ got right under his skin. I saw him looking at his feet to-day, too,” laughed Kennedy.

Dave liked Dill――his whole name it seemed was Robert Dunham Dill――and for a day or two Pete was strangely taciturn and moody. What his trouble was only appeared when he referred to Dill contemptuously as “your friend, the Rah-rah Boy.” It dawned on Dave then that Pete was jealous, and he set about working him out of it. But Pete was not to be placated at once and it was another day or two before he returned to good humor. Even then, however, he refused to accept The Pickle on a friendly footing, and showed a tendency to pick a quarrel with that youth on almost any provocation. Matters reached a head on the fourth day of the _944’s_ sea duty.

Dill had several times amused the men by showing tricks of wrestling. He was very modest of his prowess and had to be coaxed a bit before he would perform. Then, with one or another of the men as adversary, he showed various holds and always deposited the opponent neatly on his back on the fo’c’sle deck when the time came. On the occasion mentioned nine or ten of the “gobs” were looking on, amongst them Pete and Dave. Briggs had managed to stave off defeat for the better part of a minute, but was eventually landed, to the huge delight of the audience. Whereupon Pete pushed forward.

“Come on, Percy,” he challenged. “Try me. I ain’t no Zbyszko, but I might show you a trick at that.”

Dill viewed Pete doubtfully, aware of the latter’s unfriendliness.

“What’s the matter?” sneered Pete. “Ain’t scared, are you?”

Dill shook his head. “No, but this is fun, and you don’t sound as though you wanted fun.”

“Sure, I want fun,” replied Pete, grinning. “I won’t hurt you, son. Come on an’ show me some o’ them pretty tricks.”

“All right,” answered Dill quietly, “if you insist.”

“Yeah, that’s me, Mister Insist,” said Pete flippantly. “Everything goes, eh?”

Dill’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. “Just as you like. Ready?”

They circled for a moment in the narrow space of the fo’c’sle deck, eyeing each other warily. Then. Pete sprang in and they grappled. The audience was quite impartial and for a minute, while the two struggled for holds, they applauded first one and then the other. Pete was outweighed by The Pickle, but he soon showed himself a difficult problem for the latter. Twice Dill tried a fall only to have Pete squirm free. Then, locked again, heaving and panting, they struggled without advantage to either for a long two minutes. At last, though, Dill fairly lifted Pete from his feet, and they crashed together to the deck, Dill on top. But Pete had managed to land on one hip, and now, like a human eel, he squirmed over on his face in spite of the other’s grasp. Twice Dill had him nearly over, but each time Pete pried himself back. The third effort succeeded, however, and Pete was being remorselessly flattened, when a shout of protest arose from the watchers.

“Foul there, Pete!” “Quit gouging!” “Cut out the rough stuff!”

But Pete, his right hand in Dill’s face, only grinned. Dill strove to pull his head away from the fingers that were clutching at eyes and nose, but failed. Then: “Don’t do that,” he panted.

“Why not?” answered Pete. “You said――everything went!”

“All right!” Dill’s response was heard only by his antagonist. But the others saw The Pickle come nimbly to his knees with arching back. Pete’s hold broke. Before he knew what was to happen he found himself turned heels-over-head, and he came slamming to the deck like a bag of potatoes and with a suddenness and force that bewildered him for just the fraction of time needed by Dill. Down came that youth with all his one hundred and eighty pounds, and Pete’s body lay flat with the deck, both shoulders and hips down.

A roar of applause greeted the victory, and Dill sprang to his feet. The marks of Pete’s fingers were still on his face, and unconsciously he put a hand up to his nose. But he was smiling quite amiably as Pete arose. Knowing Pete’s quick temper, the audience waited for an outbreak from that youth. But Pete only pulled his neckerchief into place in silence.

“Try again?” asked Dill good-humoredly.

Pete shook his head, while one of his slow grins came over his freckled countenance. “I got enough,” he said. “You win, bo. That was some toss, take it from Pete. An’, say, if I hurt your face I’m sorry, see! Where I learned what I know about wrestlin’ you can do anything you want to short o’ usin’ a knife! That all right?”

“Sure!” agreed Dill. “It was fair. I agreed to it. If you had a bit more weight, friend, you’d be a mighty good wrestler.”

“Yeah, I’d be a wonder,” agreed Pete. “But some time you got to show me how you flipped me over, son. That was too quick for me to take any notes!”

“All right,” laughed Dill. “Any time you like.”

“I guess he ain’t so bad,” announced Pete that night to Dave. “Any guy that can keep his temper when he’s bein’ gouged is some lad. An’ he sure is some boy at that mat game, take it from Pete!”

After that The Pickle became one of them and the three hung very close together. Sometimes Carter, now known amongst his mates as “Yank,” made a fourth, but Carter never quite fitted into the small circle for some reason. Meanwhile I have got far ahead of my story, for all this time the _944_ has been bucking the seas around “50-10,” and in the Summer of 1917 no patrol could do that for long without scaring up some sort of an adventure!