All the first morning Tod Fanning showed Claude over the boat,—not that Fanning had ever been on anything bigger than a Lake Michigan steamer, but he knew a good deal about machinery, and did not hesitate to ask the deck stewards to explain anything he didn’t know. The stewards, indeed all the crew, struck the boys as an unusually good-natured and obliging set of men.
The fourth occupant of number 96, Claude’s cabin, had not turned up by noon, nor had any of his belongings, so the three who had settled their few effects there began to hope they would have the place to themselves. It would be crowded enough, at that. The third bunk was assigned to an officer from the Kansas regiment, Lieutenant Bird, a Virginian, who had been working in his uncle’s bank in Topeka when he enlisted. He and Claude sat together at mess. When they were at lunch, the Virginian said in his very gentle voice:
“Lieutenant, I wish you’d explain Lieutenant Fanning to me. He seems very immature. He’s been telling me about a submarine destroyer he’s invented, but it looks to me like foolishness.”
Claude laughed. “Don’t try to understand Fanning. Just let him sink in, and you’ll come to like him. I used to wonder how he ever got a commission. You never can tell what crazy thing he’ll do.”
Fanning had, for instance, brought on board a pair of white flannel pants, his first and only tailor-made trousers, because
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