At the Midway Read Online Free PDF Page B

energy.  The Fleet carries 35,000,000 pounds in its magazines.  We carry not only the standard Whitehead torpedoes, but many of the new turbine-driven Bliss-Leavitt models.  Among the explosives are dynamite, maxemite, lyddite and shimose."
    Imposing statistics, imposingly stacked.  With each increment Roosevelt visibly swelled, as if gearing up for a hunt.
    "Wonderful!  Marvelous!  Absolutely... bully!"
    Ingersoll saluted, then vanished like a dropped decimal place.
    Roosevelt scowled.  This time, the photographers were ready.  President and Rear Admiral were surrounded by pops and flashes, as though a battle were already underway.
     
    "Yoo-hoo!  Roger!  Roger!"
    Ensign Roger Garrett was dismantling the head of the dragon when the female voice clanged overhead.  He cursed, then threw a vicious scowl at the men of the dragon crew grinning at him.
    "Roger!  You'll never guess... never!"
    Garrett spotted the portly man struggling to keep up with the attractive brunette, and immediately guessed.
    They were tied up at the Hotel Chamberlin pier.  On the quay between hotel and river a large crowd had gathered to see how the magical dragon was taken apart.  It was a clever, portable disguise that extended several yards fore and aft of the cutter.  Garrett's dubious command.  His main concern had been to prevent the burning naphtha that shot out the nose from catching the dragon and cutter on fire.  He'd succeeded, but barely.  The dragon's snout was charred to a crisp.
    The girl's mouth, on the other hand, was moist, inviting, and constantly open.  He'd met Emily-- good God, what was her last name ?--at one of the frequent football games the sailors of the Fleet played on shore while stationed at Norfolk.  He'd seen her swooning extravagantly in the bleachers.  Covered with dirt and sweat, he'd introduced himself to her after the game, and soon had a pretty decoration to attend his arm at the innumerable parties that made the Capes so boisterous that year.  The problem was that Emily pranced at his elbow like one espoused.  As of yet, the only banns had been in her heart and mind, which seemed nuptial enough for her.
    He gave her a brief wave, then turned and shouted commands at the crew of the cutter at the top of his lungs.
    Which did nothing to chase Emily away.  Just the opposite.  Clapping her hands in admiration, she grabbed the stranger by the elbow and dragged him forward.  What was it she said her father did for a living?  A dry-goods drummer?  Yes, that was it.  At least, Emily put out like the daughter of a dry-goods drummer.  Things had been too dry in her life and she'd been on the lookout for something a little... wetter.  Either that or she was under the mistaken impression that ensigns in the U.S. Navy made more than $2,700 a year.  Of course, if he was ever to advance himself, a wife would be a necessity.
    But the daughter of a dry-goods drummer?
    "Roger!  Look!  It's my father !"
    Damn.  For the life of him, Garrett couldn't remember... what was her last name?
    He turned.  "Ah!  Emily's father!"  They shook hands.  The father's palm felt dry.
    "Seems my Emily's grown quite attached while I've been away," said the dry-goods drummer.
    "Well," said Garrett, cautiously veering away from the insinuation, "I've become fond of Emily."
    Without further preliminary, the man asked, "And how fond is that?"
    How in the world did Emily know I'd be here ? Garrett wondered.  She'd heard something somewhere, that much was obvious.  The wonder of it was that she had stopped working her mouth long enough to listen.
    Her father was taking full advantage of the crew's presence.  Even as Garrett guided him out of earshot, he all but shouted, "And how fond is that, sir?"
    The bluejackets in the cutter were privy to a splendid mime show.  Ensign Garrett entreated the sky, then begged of the planet.  He spread his arms in a bombastic explosion, then shuffled his foot in contrition.  He demanded