Somehow one is always prone to associate the idea of a launching of a vessel of any kind with crowds, gaiety, and blaring brass bands. Except for the fact, however, that a brand-new flag floated above the boatyard on the day that the long-expected event was to take place, there was no sign that anything unusual was going on.

All hands reported at the yard early, the workmen in their best clothes, the naval contingent in uniforms. A few finishing touches remained to be put upon the boat, and the slight damage done by Anderson’s file to be adjusted. A little more than an hour sufficed for this, however, and then all was ready.

“At last,” breathed Mr. Lockyer, as the foreman, with a formal touch of his cap, said:

“We’re ready when you are, sir.”

Lieutenant Parry tried to look unconcerned, but under his naval mask of indifference it could be seen that he was excited. As for the boys, their faces shone with anticipation. Old Tom Marlin went about with a broad grin on his face, clapping everybody on the shoulder and singing snatches of musty sea chanties.

As might have been expected, word had spread that there was something unusual going on at the yard. By the time all was in readiness quite a crowd had gathered. Several persons tried to get in at the gate, but they were ruthlessly informed that no one would be admitted. As the next best thing, they made for points of vantage along the beach outside the fence; for, by some species of wireless telegraphy, there was now a well-defined rumor that “‘Lockyer’s Dream’ was to take to the water that morning.”

“Wonder what we’re waiting for?” mused Ned, as ten o’clock struck and still Mr. Lockyer paced nervously up and down, without giving the signal to go aboard. Some workmen, hammers in hand, stood about ready to knock out the remaining props as soon as the word should be given, and send the grim diving torpedo boat sliding down the ways into the sea.

“Tide’ll turn before long, sir,” ventured the foreman, stepping up to Mr. Lockyer. The inventor gave a sigh and seemed to start out of a reverie.

“Very well, then,” he said. “I guess you may as well give the order to go ahead.”

But as he spoke, from outside the fence there came a sudden interruption to the hush of suspense that had settled over the occupants of the boatyard and the crowd outside.

The sharp “honk-honk” of an auto could be heard as it was urged through the curious crowd clustered outside the gates. A sudden change came over the inventor as he heard it. His gloom seemed to vanish like magic, and he made for the gate in great bounds. Reaching it, he flung it open himself, and a touring car, driven by a liveried chauffeur and containing two passengers, was driven into the yard. To the astonishment of the boys, one of the occupants of the car was a singularly beautiful young woman, and the other a stout, gray-whiskered man in a frock coat, white waistcoat and many other outward and accepted trappings of wealth.

The inventor—an odd contrast to the daintily gowned girl and the smartly tailored old man, in his greasy overalls which he had donned for the launching—was at the side of the car in an instant, aiding the young woman to alight. This done, he extended a hand to the old man, but the latter spurned it.

“I can help myself, Lockyer,” he snapped out; “not too old for that yet. So to-day is the day that you are going to launch that insane myth of yours—the cruising submarine?”

“It is, Mr. Pangloss,” rejoined the inventor, “and I feel very much flattered that you have decided to be present on the occasion.”

“Oh, you have to thank me for that,” flashed the young woman with a radiant smile. “I told you we would not fail you, and you see we haven’t.”

“Thank you,” breathed the inventor, in a low tone. “I felt sure you would be here if it were possible. You, at least, have always believed in me.”

“And so will dad when the Lockyer is afloat,” laughed the young woman gaily. “James,” she went on, turning to the chauffeur, “get that basket out of the tonneau. You see, Mr. Lockyer,” she smiled, “I have not forgotten that I am to christen the boat, and we have brought the baptismal font with us.”

“Hum,” remarked Lieutenant Parry, turning to Midshipman Stark, “there’s Lockyer’s romance. It’s easy to see that.”

“Well, I hope he wins out,” was the rejoinder. “He’s a good fellow and she is one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen. But her father—for I guess the old man is her father—doesn’t seem to approve.”

Indeed the old man had been stamping about the yard, poking at castings and odd bits of machinery with his cane, and asking sharp questions of the different workmen. Presently Mr. Lockyer introduced his guests as Miss Vivian Pangloss and her father, Peregrine Pangloss. The girl smiled gracefully through the introductions, but her father, on the other hand, seemed anxious to assert his entire disbelief in the submarine and all who had anything to do with it.

“It’s nonsense, gentlemen, nonsense!” he asserted emphatically. “Man’s place in nature is on the earth or on the surface of the waters. He has no business either to fly in the air or to dive under the ocean.”

“In that event you would naturally limit human progress,” put in Lieutenant Parry.

“And what of it, sir? What of it?” puffed old Mr. Pangloss. “I have lived for sixty years, sir, and all that time have managed to get along without any such nonsensical things, and so did my ancestors before me. It’s obvious, then, that there is no need of them. Mankind is better off without them.”

“But in case of war, sir,” put in Midshipman Stark. “If the Lockyer is as capable a submarine as we hope she will prove to be, the nation possessing her will be years ahead of any other, at least, so far as naval warfare is concerned.”

“Bah, sir! War ought to be abolished,” snapped the old man. “I’d like to shoot or hang everybody who talks about war, or is connected with it in any way.”

“Suppose we take a look over the boat before she is launched,” suggested the inventor, tactfully changing the subject.

“Oh, that would be the very thing,” cried Miss Pangloss excitedly. “I am sure it is a wonderful boat and will be a great success.”

“It will—it must be, if you wish it,” said the inventor, in so low a tone, however, that the others did not catch it.

“I will look at the boat,” announced Mr. Pangloss bristlingly, “but I want it distinctly understood that I do not endorse the principles for which she stands. Warfare and bloodshed are distasteful to me, odious—detestable!”

“Gee, he makes more disturbance about it than a whole battery of guns,” whispered Herc to Ned, as the boys and Tom Marlin fell in the rear of the party.

“Most of these peace agitators do,” was Ned’s rejoinder. “They forget that the rivalry between nations is not a theory, but a condition. The first nation to fall behind in her defenses will be the first to fall a prey to the others.”

“Say,” whispered old Tom Marlin hoarsely, “I know that whiskered craft Pangloss. I’ve seed his picters in ther papers. He’s a crank of peace. He was speaking at one peace meeting where some one disagreed with him and he busted a water pitcher over their heads.

“‘I will have peace,’ says he, ‘if we’ve got ter have war ter git it.’”

“He must be Irish,” laughed Ned. “Seriously, though, now you speak of it, I do recall who he is.”

“A celebrity?” inquired Sim, who had been quite overawed by the fiery manner of the apostle of peace.

“In a way, yes. He amassed a fortune manufacturing steel.”

“The material of which warships are built, eh?” chuckled Herc; “that’s a good one. If it hadn’t been for the navy, where would he have been.”

“Not only that,” went on Ned, “but I understand that in his eagerness to get contracts he did not hesitate to stump the country at one time, advocating a bigger navy and more guns.”

“And now he has his fortune he’s blowing cold again,” put in Tom.

“Seems so. But just look how attentively Mr. Lockyer is bending over the old man’s daughter. She’s looking up at him, too, as if she thought a whole lot of him. Look at the old man glaring at them. I’ll bet he’s mad.”

Ned guessed just right. Years before, when Lockyer was just out of college, he had obtained employment as a chemist in the Pangloss Steel Works at Pittsburg. As he accepted the position more for experience than for the pay, which was small—his father allowing him an ample allowance—he naturally had some good introductions. Among the homes he visited had been that of his employer, where he met Miss Vivian. She had been deeply interested in the young man’s work, and when the submarine idea—upon which he was working at the time—was complete, he made her his confidant.

Old Mr. Pangloss had, at first, been glad to welcome Lockyer to his home. When the chemist’s father died, however, and did not leave as large a fortune as had been anticipated, the old man looked upon the growing friendship between his daughter and the inventor from another viewpoint. He had, in fact, discouraged his visits. That morning was the first time the inventor and the girl he had grown to love had met in many months. Her arrival was in response to a promise made a long time before, that she would be there to christen the Lockyer when it took to the water. Much against her father’s wishes, therefore, they had come. It was Lockyer’s belief that she would redeem that promise that had kept him delaying the launching till the last moment.

The purpose of a small platform erected near the Lockyer’s bow now became apparent. It was for the fair sponsor of the vessel to stand upon while she shattered the bottle against the steel prow, according to time-honored custom. As she took her place upon the little stand, she gave Lockyer a look full of confidence and trust, and a bright light shone in the inventor’s eyes as he followed the others to the deck of the diving craft. There was new confidence in his step, his head was thrown back, and he fairly radiated assurance.

“Better give the word as soon as possible,” whispered Lieutenant Parry to the foreman, who stood beside him. “We don’t want to try Lockyer’s nerves more than necessary.”

Now the ladder was kicked away from the steel side of the craft. It had been used for the last time. In obedience to a nod from Lieutenant Parry, Ned took his place at the deck wheel forward of the conning tower. The entire front of the shed had been removed for the launching, and they could see stretched before them the sparkling waters of the Sound. In the distance was the dim blue outline of the Connecticut shore.

“All ready!” hailed the foreman over the side.

A quiver of excitement ran through every man on that steel deck. In a few minutes now they would know whether the initial trial of the craft was to be a success or a failure.

Below, a terrific clattering of sledges started up. The workmen were swinging their hammers against the wooden props, knocking out the remaining retaining wedges. When the last one was knocked clear, the submarine would begin to shoot down the greased ways.

“Right below!” shouted a workman from beneath. Those on the deck knew that his words meant that only one wedge remained to be knocked loose.

Mr. Lockyer was gripping the rail, his face turned toward the platform upon which stood Miss Pangloss and her father. His face was ghastly pale, though his eyes shone brightly. His nervous grasp on the rail whitened his knuckles as he gripped it.

The girl, a brave smile upon her lips, held the bottle ready poised. The silken ribbons which fluttered from its neck moved slightly in the light breeze sweeping in from the unruffled Sound. In that moment of tension even old Mr. Pangloss looked interested. The naval officers stood without blinking an eyelid or betraying any outward sign of emotion—as their training required.

“All right!” the command came from Mr. Lockyer. His voice shook as he uttered it. He caught his breath sharply.

The foreman echoed the word in stentorian tones.

“Let her go, boys!”

Boom!

The supreme moment had come.

The hammer fell upon that last wedge. A sharp quiver ran through the steel structure of the diving boat. It was the first stirring of life within her frame.

“She’s off!”

Old Tom Marlin, forgetful of discipline, had uttered the sharp cry. It had been wrung from him by the tension of the moment as the submarine began to move.

Crash!

The bottle smashed across the prow. Its contents gushed sparkling and bubbling down her gray sides. Then, in a clear, girlish voice, came the words so fraught with meaning to the inventor. There was not a quiver in the girl’s voice, though her eyes were strangely bright as she exclaimed:

“I name thee ‘Lockyer.’ May you always prove worthy of your flag, your service, and your name!”

“Hurroo!”

Mr. Lockyer, coolest of all now, waved his cap confidently at the dainty sponsor.

The wild cheer came from the workmen. It was caught up and echoed by the excited men on the deck of the now moving boat, and went swelling out on the still air till the crowd outside caught it up and gave it back with a will.

Even Mr. Pangloss’s iron jaw relaxed as he watched the inspiring sight of tons of steel shooting toward the sea at express speed. As Ned clutched the steering wheel every nerve in his body throbbed. The exciting thrill of motion ran through them all.

Down shot the submarine. As she neared the water, Lieutenant Parry darted back to the stern staff. Seizing the halliards, he ran the flag—rolled up in a ball as yet—to the truck.

Sp-l-a-s-h!

The white spray flew high. It descended in sparkling clouds, drenching everybody on the deck as the Lockyer shot forward into the water. Forward and outward she sped, straight and true as an arrow, her young helmsman holding her right on her course.

“Hurray!”

The shout came volleying from the crowded beach.

The officer jerked the halliards. Out from the jack-staff burst the splendor of the stars and stripes—Old Glory!

What a yell went up then. The crowd clustered on the beach shrieked and danced with excitement till they were hoarse. The workmen in the yard dragged out an old saluting cannon and blazed and blazed away. Even Mr. Pangloss gave a discreet chirrup which he intended, he informed his daughter apologetically later on, as a cheer. As Old Glory floated out, all on board bared their heads, and, turning toward our flag, stiffly saluted.

Losing her impetus, the Lockyer slackened speed, hesitated, and then stopped. At the same instant, with a whirr and clatter, her anchor roared down, entering the water with a splash. The latest, most novel submarine was launched.

What did the future hold in store for her?