A GOOD SHOT WITH THE SIX-POUNDER

"Bang," went the six-pounder, and four seconds later a heavy column of water rose up under the bow of the "Robert Centre," three quarters of a mile away.

"Well placed," called out Commander Brice, as he saw the shot fall. "What," he exclaimed a moment later, "the rascal won't heave to! Split the mast, Mr. Drake, six feet above the deck."

Hardly had he given the order when Robert again fired.

"Five feet to the right; aim a little to the left of the mast."

Again a sheet of flame leaped from the six-pounder's mouth, again the thunderous reverberating report, dying out in far-away echoes, rolled from the gun.

Except for Commander Brice's orders, the noise of the gun, and the now painfully loud throbbing of the engines, an intense stillness prevailed on the "Nevada's" deck. Thoroughly accustomed to navy ways, not a soul on board thought of questioning the captain's reason for injuring the graceful yacht, which had seen many pleasant sailing parties of midshipmen and their friends. All eyes were on the yacht; a few seconds after Robert's last shot the tall raking mast was seen suddenly to snap off close to the deck. Down went the mast over the side into the water, carrying with it every sail; and the yacht a minute before so full of life and spirit, so swiftly plunging through the water, now rolled helplessly, inert and lifeless.

"A beautiful shot, Mr. Drake," cried Commander Brice, delightedly. "Mr. Joynes, as soon as we are near that yacht I'll slow down and stop and you lower the life-boat; get your armed crew aboard, and row over to the 'Robert Centre'! Take three men and a small boy from her—and let go the yacht's anchor; we'll let the 'Standish' tow her in after target practice."

"What is it, Brice?" asked Commander Shaw, who had gone up on top of the pilot house.

"Read this wireless message from the superintendent. It's evident that the kidnappers of Georgie Thompson stole the 'Robert Centre' and now are on board with the boy. By Jingo! Mr. Drake did some fine shooting. Between wireless telegraphy and good shooting villainy isn't profitable these days."

Before long three silent, gloomy men and a small boy were brought on board. Two of the men were on the verge of collapse; new life had come to little Georgie, who wondered what it was all about.

"Master-at-arms, put these men in a cell and place a guard over them. Where is the wireless operator? Oh—send this message immediately. Look here, my little man, is your name Georgie Thompson?"

"Yes, sir. Where is my papa? Is he here? What were those awful noises, Mister? May I have a piece of bread and butter? I'm awfully hungry. Where is my papa?"

"Steward, take Georgie to my cabin and keep him there, and get him something to eat, right away. Full speed, both engines, hard aport the helm. Now we'll run back by the buoys again. Take charge, Shaw, and fire as you will."

Before long Blair's crew fired at its target, and in quick succession the remaining four targets were fired at, and then the "Nevada" ran up to the targets to count the shot holes in them and the "Standish" went up to repair them.

Never did Robert Drake have a more exultant feeling than when he saw the holes his shots had torn through the canvas. He had fired twenty-two times in his minute, and there were nineteen gaping holes in his target. Blair had fired sixteen times and had made thirteen hits. Robert now knew the flag was his and he was glad indeed. Six more crews were to fire, but he knew in his heart that none could hope to equal his record, because none had had the practice his crew had had.

Nothing could have exceeded the cordial congratulations of his closest rival, Blair.

"You've beaten me out, Bob, but, by George, you deserve to. I'm not ashamed of my score; thirteen hits is not a bad record—but what luck you have had—what a wonderful bull's-eye you made when you knocked down the 'Robert Centre's' mast; you deserve the flag, Bob! There's no doubt of that fact; you've won it, and by no fluke."

The targets were soon patched up, and the remaining six gun crews fired their shots. On the whole the target practice was very good and the midshipmen and the ordnance officers present were jubilant.

The "Nevada" returned to her wharf at six o'clock, and found a great crowd waiting for her. Present was a middle-aged gentleman, Mr. Thompson, who had come down from Baltimore on a special train; he was full of emotion and feeling, and wild with eagerness to see once more the dear little boy who had been so rudely torn from him.

Among the crowd were police officers, sailormen, and a company of marines. The transfer of the three miscreants to the police did not take long. Outside of the Naval Academy gate a howling, derisive mob of whites and blacks had gathered and they jeered the miserable criminals as they were taken through the streets to the railroad station.

Language was not powerful enough for Mr. Thompson to express his gratitude. "What can I do for you, sir?" he asked of Commander Brice. "I had determined to give the kidnappers the ten thousand dollars they demanded; could I—may I——"

"Your train doesn't leave for a couple of hours, Mr. Thompson; suppose you take dinner with me—and of course you know how glad we all are your boy is restored to you. But I'm going to introduce to you the midshipman who knocked the mast out of the yacht, the bulliest shot I've ever seen. Come here, Mr. Drake; this is Georgie's father."

"What can I do for you, Mr. Drake?" eagerly asked the happy man. "Please say something—do let me do something for you."

Robert thought a moment, and then said: "Why, sir, I'm going to graduate in less than three weeks; won't you come to my graduation, sir? I'd be so glad if you would."

Mr. Thompson looked reproachfully at them both. "Well, all I can say is, you are all gentlemen, every one of you!" Tears stood in his eyes as he said this, and he couldn't have said anything that would have touched and pleased officers and midshipmen more deeply.

This affair redounded to the credit of the Naval Academy. The superintendent had acted quickly, Captain Brice had acted with judgment, and midshipmen could hit when they shot. This was the boiled-down newspaper comment.

"How did you feel, Bob, when you shot at the 'Robert Centre's' mast?" asked Stonewell later.

"Feel? Why, I didn't feel at all, beyond an intention to hit the mast."

"But wasn't there an idea in your mind that you might hurt somebody?"

"You see, Stone," said Robert, "at that moment Captain Brice's will dominated my action; I was a machine, an automaton. I was completely controlled by him. Now when we talk this over in cold blood it seems terrible, but I suppose that in a case like that a man loses all personal feeling—he is under a peculiar power. I imagine this is human nature and accounts for a lot of things. In our case it results no doubt from the military training we have received here these last four years. Now when we get an order from the commandant or officer-in-charge we just naturally obey it."

"I think you're right, Bob. Well, old chap, you are graduating with flying colors. I'd rather have aimed the shot that took down the 'Robert Centre's' mast than have done any other thing that has happened since I became a midshipman. You've won the flag, that was your great ambition; and you are graduating number five or six. But everybody here isn't as happy as you and I are, Bob. I'm quite concerned over Harry Blunt; he stands in some danger of bilging; not a great deal, but it is possible."

Robert stiffened immediately. "Since when have you taken up with that rascal, Stone?"

"Look here, you've no right to call him a rascal. You've Frenched yourself; so have I, so have Blair and Farnum."

"Since when have you taken up with him, Stone?" persisted Robert.

"I haven't taken up with him; I hardly ever have occasion to speak with him. But I think a lot of Helen and his father and mother. You do too; you don't want to see him bilge, do you?"

"For the sake of his father and mother and sister, no. Let's talk of something else. This is Friday; the annual examinations commence on Monday. They will soon be over and we graduate in two weeks. I'll hate to leave this place, Stone; I've had such a happy year."

"It has been fine, indeed. Well, Bob, we'll be back here as instructors some day. Perhaps one of us may be officer-in-charge. By the way, I'm going to say good-bye to you for a couple of days. I've leave to go to Washington. I'm going to take the five o'clock train to-night and I'll be back Sunday morning at about ten o'clock."

Robert looked at his roommate with unconcealed amazement.

"Well, Stone, you'll excuse my being astonished. But for an intimate chum you are the most remarkably secretive, non-communicative, open-hearted fellow that ever lived. Why, to go to Washington is an event for a midshipman. Were I going to Washington, everybody in my class would know of it. But it's just in line with your lonely trips out to Conduit Street. Now, Stone, I'm intensely interested, you know that; and I'm not going to ask any questions; but if you can tell me why you are going, what you are going to do, I do wish you would."

"Bob, I've had a family matter on my mind for some time and I just cannot talk about it. But I think everything is coming out all right. I expect to be back here with a free mind Sunday morning and I hope to talk openly with you then. Good-bye; I'm going to start now."

"I'll go to the train with you; there's plenty of time."

"Bob," said Stonewell, awkwardly, "I've got an errand to do before I go, and—and——"

"All right, Stone, I understand. Good-bye, old chap, and good luck. Conduit Street again," muttered Robert to himself, after Stonewell had left.