The weeks slipped by quickly now.

Athletics cannot occupy as prominent a place at Annapolis as at the universities and colleges, for the midshipmen must, above all, be sure that they stand high enough in their academic work.  Dave and Dan were both invited out for baseball try-out, but both asked to be excused.

Dan, by himself, would have gone in for the Navy nine, and doubtless would have made it.

It was Darrin, the cautious, who dissuaded Dalzell.

“Better shy away from athletics, Danny boy, until you’ve made your academic footing secure,” was Dave’s advice.

“You didn’t talk that way in the High School,” argued Dan.

“No; there the athletics were more necessary, if we were to keep in condition.  Here athletics may be regarded as the luxury, which we are not yet entitled.  Here, with the gym work, the fencing, the drills under arms and the boat drills, we’re kept in the pink of physical condition without need for special training.”

“Next year, when we feel absolutely solid in our marks, we can go in for athletics, if we wish, Dan.”

So Dalzell gave in.  He was beginning to realize that his chum had a “long” head and that his advice was always good.

With the coming of spring the boat drills were resumed in earnest.

Dave, standing well in “grease,” now, became captain of one of the boat crews, for he had developed unusual skill in boat handling.

One bright afternoon in the latter part of April, while half of the brigade marched off to instruction on shore, the other half marched down to the docks beyond the seamanship building.

Here the members of the third class embarked in the steam launches each craft representing a war vessel ­for fleet drill.

The fourth class men embarked, by crews, in the sailboats.

As each captain gave the order to shove clear of the dock the mainsail was hoisted.  Then each crew captain kept one eye on the watch for the signals of the instructor, who was aboard a boat designated as the flagship.

The sail was downstream.  Beyond Annapolis some pretty manoeuvering work was done.  While this drill was proceeding, however, the wind died out considerably.  Then, light as the breeze was, the youthful crew captains were forced to beat back against almost a head wind.

There being no signs of squalls or puffs, the crew captains did not seem to need to exercise much caution.  The members of the crews stood indolently at their stations.

Yet Dave was as alert as ever.  He stood close to the midshipman tillerman, looking constantly for signals from the flagship, and at the same time watchful for any wind signs.

An hour or more they had proceeded thus.  Some of Dave’s boat crew, who had been making a lark of their nearly becalmed condition now began to demur over the prospect of getting back late for supper.

“The steam-launch fleet might show up and give us a tow,” grumbled Farley.

Dave smiled and said nothing.  He was as eager as any midshipman in the boat to have his supper on time, but he felt that the crew captain must appear above any sign of complaint untoward fate.

For a moment or so Darrin turned to look aft at the weather.

“Motor boat ‘John Duncan’ on the port bow, two points off and bearing this way, sir,” reported the bow watch.

Darrin turned quickly, bending to glance under the boom, for the mainsail was in his way.

What he saw made him dart quickly forward, to take up his stand by the mast.

“Pass me the megaphone, Mr. Dalzell,” he requested.

With this mouth-piece in hand, Dave watched the nearing craft.

The “Duncan” was a semi-speed boat, some forty-five feet over all, without cabin, and carrying only a sprayhood forward to protect its engine.

Two men appeared in the boat ­Mr Salisbury, the owner, and his engineer.  The latter was steering at this time.

Chug-chug-chug! came the fast craft.

Dave waited, well knowing that his hail could not carry to either engineer or owner over the noise that the “Duncan’s” engine was making.

Farley stood close to Dave watching.  The tillerman also had his eye on the approaching craft.  The other midshipmen, telling stories or staring out over the water, paid little heed.  There could be no danger from the motor boat.  Both the owner and engineer were well known, in these waters, as capable boat handlers and as men of judgment.

Darrin, himself, did not believe that there was any danger.

“Throw her head a point and a half off to the starboard,” called Dave Darrin evenly.

“Aye, aye, sir,” responded the midshipman tillerman, and the sailboat responded slowly under the slight headway.

“Great Scott, don’t those fellows know that a sailboat has the right of way over a power craft?” demanded Darrin suddenly.

“Perhaps they’re going to see how close they can come to us without hitting us,” remarked Farley.

Dave raised the megaphone to his lips, waiting until he judged that there was a chance of his hail being heard.

“Duncan, ’ahoy!” bellowed Darrin.  “Go to port of us!”

Still the motor boat came onward, at a speed something better than fourteen miles.

“Hard-a-starboard!” Darrin roared back to his own tillerman.

Then he repeated his hail.  He was almost frenzied now; for the motor boat had not yet changed its course.

Suddenly, when the two craft were almost together, the engineer, after throwing over his wheel, held up one hand.

Before Dave could guess what the gesture meant, the “Duncan” loomed up on the sail-boat’s port bow, coming on at unabated speed.

There was an instant scampering of midshipmen for safety.  Then bump! the motor boat’s bow crashed into the sailboat, cutting a great gap in her.

The force of the shock threw most of the midshipmen into the water.  The rest jumped.

Now, the “Duncan” responded to her engine by backing off.  But the motor boat, too, had received her deathblow.  Ere she had backed off a hundred and fifty feet she began to fill rapidly.  Owner and engineer had only time to adjust life-preservers and leap overboard.  Then the “Duncan” went down.

At the moment of collision there was a crash of spars and a snapping of cordage.  The sailing craft’s mast had gone by the board, though not much before the sailboat itself had filled.

Dave himself was pitched headlong.  He sank below the water, but had no fear for himself, for he was wholly at home in the water.

Yet, as he found the water closing over him, Dave Darrin felt a great thrill of terror for others run through him.

“My boat crew is the poorest in the class in swimming!” he gasped, with a throb of agony.  “Not more than half of them know how to take care of themselves!  And I, as captain, am responsible for their safety!”