BREAKING TWO ROOKIES.

A fresh breeze, tossing up the foamy white caps; fleecy clouds, scurrying by overhead; and, on the sparkling sea, spread in a long formidable line, the North Atlantic squadron, steaming "in column," bound for the battle practice at Guantanamo. Between each of the huge battle bulldogs, glistening wetly with the tossed-up spray, a perfect distance was maintained—as accurately as if the space between each ship in the long line were fixed permanently; yet the squadron was reeling off twenty knots an hour on its way to tropic waters.

On the fore-deck of the Manhattan, which, leviathan as she was, pitched heavily in the huge Atlantic swells, stood the two Dreadnought Boys; but a big change was manifest in the ruddy-headed Herc's smiling features, since he sat down to supper the night before the squadron sailed.

Ned regarded his chum with a smile at the other's woe-begone look.

"Cheer up, Herc," he said. "It will soon be over, you know. Sea-sickness does not last long."

"A good thing it doesn't," groaned the unfortunate Herc, "or I'd be finished with earthly woes by this time. O-oh-oh-oh!"

The exclamation was forced from Ned's cousin as the Manhattan gave an extra heavy pitch which sent the salt foam flying in a wet cloud over the port-bow.

It was the second morning following the fleet's departure from New York. The night before, after a day of agony, poor Herc had been hoisted into his hammock by three sailors, and now, in the early dawn, he was undergoing once more all the torments of the day previous. Ned, on the contrary, seemed unaffected by the motion of the ship in the heavy sea-way, and had escaped the toll old Neptune demands from most neophytes.

"Here, you boys," bluffly snapped a boatswain's mate, approaching the boys; "what are you doing here?" It was not the same petty officer who had shown them about the ship.

"Beg pardon, sir," said Ned, respectfully saluting, "but we haven't received any assignments yet."

"Well, lay hold of a swab and get to work."

"A swab, sir?"

"It sounds what I feel like," groaned Herc.

"Yes, a deck-mop, if you like that term better. No idlers allowed here."

"My friend here, is pretty sea-sick, sir," ventured Ned respectfully.

"Never mind; a little work will do him good—work and a good breakfast——"

"Breakfast oh-o-o-oh!" from the luckless Herc.

"Come, hammocks have been piped down for five minutes. Have you stowed yours?" demanded the boatswain's mate sharply.

"Yes, sir," replied Ned, who had performed this office both for himself and for his friend.

"Well, you will turn to with the first deck division and scrub decks."

"Very well, sir," said Ned, starting forward to where he saw a number of jackies, armed with swabs, preparing to begin the first daily task on a man-o'-war. Scrubbing and painting and cleaning brasswork are a Jackie's chief tasks at sea.

"But hold on a minute—your boots."

The boatswain's mate glared downward disapprovingly.

"Have I lost those, too?" moaned Herc.

"Take off your boots, at once. Footgear is not allowed while scrubbing decks."

"Very well, sir. Come, Herc, we must go forward."

Followed by Herc, Ned made his way to the fore superstructure, where swabs were being served out. After a little inquiry, he found his "station," and guided the half-dazed Herc into his place in the scrubbing line. Soon they were at work on one of those tasks which may seem menial, but which every boy who enters Uncle Sam's navy must learn to do without complaint.

"I didn't leave home to scrub floors," muttered Herc indignantly, his disgust getting even the better of his sea-sickness; "is this a sailor's chore?"

"Never mind, Herc; look at it from this angle—in scrubbing decks you are helping to keep your five-million-dollar home clean."

"I'd give five million dollars to be ashore," groaned Herc, a fresh paroxysm sweeping over him.

Suddenly the sharp cry of "Attention!" rang along the decks.

The scrubbing squads straightened up stiffly, and came to the position of salute.

It was the captain, making an early tour of inspection with the executive officer of the ship, Lieutenant-Commander Scott. Behind him came his orderly and a messenger. Altogether, it was quite an impressive little parade.

Ned thought that the captain, whom he had last seen quelling the onrush of the crazed stokers, glanced at him with a flash of recognition. He knew enough, however, not to betray by the flicker of an eyelash that he had ever seen his commander before.

As for Herc, he was fortunately, perhaps, past paying attention to anything.

"Tell the men to carry on," Ned heard the captain say to the boatswain's mate in charge of his scrubbing squad, as the officers passed by.

"Carry on," thought Ned; "what on earth is that?"

"Come; carry on!" said boatswain's mate sharply to Ned as the boy still stood at attention, having received no order to resume work.

Ned looked at him inquiringly, and the man saw the lad was puzzled.

"Carry on. Go on with your work," he said, and Ned at once understood the hitherto mysterious order.

Breakfast followed the swabbing-down work, and Herc, who felt somewhat revived, managed to swallow a few mouthfuls. Not enough, however, to completely restore him, and a shipmate, seeing his despondent condition, advised him to visit Pills.

"What is that?" asked the astonished boy.

"It isn't a 'what,' it's a 'he'," explained the man; "Pills is the doctor."

"Well, if there's a doctor on board, I certainly want to see him," agreed Herc; and, at seven-thirty, together with several other men, suffering from real or imaginary ills, he sought out the ship's doctor, who gave him some remedies, which soon made the boy feel all right. In fact, an hour later Herc and Ned found themselves consigned to a painting squad, working, side by side, on the big forward turret which housed the twelve-inch guns.

Beside them was another blue-jacket and old Tom, their acquaintance of their first day of naval life.

Ned felt a thrill, as, in his bosn's chair, he dangled on the side of the turret close to the glistening barrels of the huge guns, which could hurl a ponderous weight of metal, an 870-pound projectile, almost ten miles. He wondered if he would ever attain his present ambition, which was to serve on the crew in the big forward turret, the one he was then engaged in painting a dull-slate color.

Conversation is allowed among blue-jackets at work if they are discreet enough not to make their tones too loud, and relapse into silence when a petty or a commissioned officer happens along. Thus Ned and the convalescent Herc found time to ask many questions concerning the ship. Naturally, the talk drifted, as they worked, to the turret on which they were toiling.

"If I tell you boys a secret can you keep it—teetotal abstinence?" asked old Tom suddenly.

"You had better not confide in us, if you don't think so," rejoined Ned somewhat sharply.

"Oh, no harm meant," hastily put in Tom; "and at that, it isn't so much of a secret. It's been hinted at in the papers, and maybe you may have heard of it. Have you?"

"Why, how can we tell unless we know what it is?" questioned Ned, with a laugh.

"Well," confided old Tom seriously, and lowering his voice—though by this time the third man on their side of the turret was painting at some distance from them—"well, inside this here turret is one of the new Varian guns. They are the invention of Henry Varian, of Boston——"

"The inventor of that new explosive?" breathed Ned.

"Exactly; Chaosite, they call it. Well, this here gun is specially built to handle this explosive, but it's never been tried yet; and—here's the secret—Varian himself is to join us in Cuba and direct the firing tests of it. While the papers have got hold of the fact that we have the gun on board, none of them know that it is to be tested on this battle practice, or that Varian himself is to meet us at Guantanamo."

"How do you come to know all this?" asked Ned.

"Why, I'm the stroke-oar of the captain's boat—when he uses it—which isn't often, nowadays," lamented old Tom, who hadn't much use for "steamers" and gasoline launches. "Well, when we was at Key West, I rowed him ashore—helped to, that is—and I overheard him talking to this fellow Varian himself about the gun. I wasn't eavesdropping, you understand; just overheard."

"That's mighty interesting," mused Ned; "of course, I have read of the government's experiments with Chaosite. It is supposed to be, I believe, the most powerful of all explosives yet discovered. It's great to think that we are on board the first ship to try it under actual battle conditions."

"I wish we could get on the crew of that gun," put in Herc. "I'd like mighty well to see just how that Chewusite acts when it's touched off. Regular Fourth of July, I guess. Pop-boom-fizz! Up in the air!—stars!—bang—down comes the stick!"

As Herc spoke, in his newly recovered vitality, he swung his pot of slate-colored paint about, to illustrate his meaning. As ill-luck would have it, the wire handle was not oversecurely fastened, and off flew the receptacle of the pigment with which the turret was being covered.

"Oh, crickey! Now I've done it!" groaned Herc, as he felt the bucket slip from the handle and go hurtling down.

The next moment Ned echoed his chum's exclamation of dismay, as he saw what had occurred.

To make matters worse, at that very moment the redoubtable Kennell was passing beneath the turret, on his way aft to clean some brasswork, and had turned his face upward, preparatory to flinging some jeering remark at the two Dreadnought Boys.

The contents of the unlucky pot of paint fell full on his sneering features, blotting them out in a sticky cloud of gray pigment!