ted for a lookout," said the officer. "He was watching
on the deck last night." Then, turning upon Tom he said brusquely, "you
were supposed to hurry down here with the tip if the convoy signaled,
eh?"

Tom struggled to answer, but they did not give him time.

"You're the fellow that read that semaphore message the other day, too,
eh?" the officer said. "Stand up."

Tom stood trembling while the sailor rapidly searched him. "Where's your
flashlight?" he demanded apparently disappointed not to find one.

"I haven't got any," said Tom, dully.

"Pretty good team work," said the sailor.

"Here you," he added, proceeding to search Tom's brother, while the
captain and the officer fell to turning the little room inside out,
hauling the mattress from the berth and examining every nook and cranny
of the place. Tom noticed that the plate, which was now on a stool, had
a sandwich on it and a piece of cheese, and he realized, if he had not
realized before, his brother's almost diabolical foresight and sagacity.
It looked very innocent--a harmless, late lunch, brought into the
stateroom as was often done among the ship's people.

During the search of the stateroom Tom stood silently by. He watched the
coverings pulled ruthlessly from the berth, moved out of the way as the
mattress was hauled to the floor, gazed fascinated at the quick
thoroughness which mercilessly unfolded every innocent towel and
scrutinized each joint and section of the life preserver, until
presently the orderly little apartment was in a state of chaos. He saw
the officer move the plate so as to examine the under side of the stool.
He saw the disguised Secret Service man pick up a little piece of
innocent cotton waste and carelessly throw it down again.

But the turmoil about him was nothing to the turmoil in his own brain.
What should he do? Would he dare to speak? What could he say? And still
he stood silent, watching with a strange, cold feeling, looking
occasionally at his brother, and thinking--thinking. As his brother
watched him furtively, and a little fearfully, Tom became aware of a
queer way he had of contracting his eyebrows, just as Uncle Job used to
do when he told a joke. And there came into his mind the memory of a
certain day long ago when his big brother and he had shot craps
together in front of the bank building in Bridgeboro and his brother had
looked just that same way when he watched the street for stray
policemen. Funny that he sh