There was the sound of a discharge, a sharp split of fire from a weapon that Owen held in his hand. A bullet struck the water just before Hal's nose, dashing the spray back in his face.

"Come back here, I tell ye!" raged the ex-foreman.

"Josh Owen's voice!" throbbed Hastings, but he swam on with the strongest strokes of which he was master. Then a succession of shots rang out. Hal Hastings was in the gravest danger he had ever been in.



CHAPTER XVI

THE LAST SECOND OF THE NICK OF TIME

Despite the whistle of lead, minding only the spray that dashed into his eyes, Hal Hastings swam on.

His one idea, at present, was to reach that submarine boat if it were within human power to do so ere the boat, now nearly all submerged, took the final plunge below the waves.

Grace Desmond did not quit her post, nor cease her heroic efforts to turn on the compressed air. Yet she added her shrill shrieks to Jack Benson's lusty yells for help.

The sounds of the shots from the shore gave them a momentary hope that help of some sort was really on its way.

"It's the last second or two, if you mean to save us!" yelled Jack, at the top of his voice.

Bang! bang! Josh Owen fired two more shots from his dangerous automatic revolver as Hal caught at the rail of the boat.

"The last chance to save us!" repeated Jack.

"I know it," came, breathlessly, as the dripping Hal dropped down the manhole. He did not even wait to make use of the stairs.

By a fortunate impulse Grace Desmond fell back as young Hastings appeared. Hal's right hand shot out, gripping the wrench. The "Pollard" gave a surge that all aboard believed to be her final one.

Yet Hal hung to his post, resolved to go down trying.

There was a hiss of compressed air. The "Pollard" didn't quite make the death plunge. Then she seemed to go, ever so little, toward a more level keel.

"I—believe—I've got her!" cried Hal Hastings.

A moment or two later he felt sure of it. He gave a cheer to ease his pent-up feelings, then suddenly gasped:

"Jack, do you know how much compressed air there is?"

"No," replied Benson, blankly.

"Heaven grant there's enough for what we must do," prayed Hal, aloud.

There were two shots over in the yard just now. The three young people heard the discharges, though they paid no heed to them at this critical instant.

Slowly the "Pollard" continued to regain evenness of keel.

Then Hastings, shifting the wrench to another part of the compressed air apparatus, opened the sea-valves of the amidships water tanks to expel water.

Briefly, now, they knew that the "Pollard" had risen. Also, she was resting on an even keel. Hal, bedewed with cold perspiration, darted up the stairs to the conning tower. He looked out, and the first glance told him the "Pollard" was riding the water as she should.

"It's all right—now," he called down, with a strong effort at calmness. "Jack, what on earth happened that you had to call for help!"

Then he caught sight of his chum, lashed to the stanchion. Hastings's mouth went wide agape with astonishment.

"Jack—how on earth—did Josh Owen—"

"Yes," nodded Benson, quickly. "This was his work. Get me free from this stanchion, won't you?"

Despite his elaborate effort at calmness Hal Hastings shook so that it was some seconds before he could get his knife from a pocket.

"Wait till I steady down," Hal muttered, grimly. "I'm afraid of stabbing you."

At last, however, Hastings controlled his right hand enough to feel safe in slashing the cords. Jack, weak-kneed, stepped away from the stanchion, though he was still handcuffed.

"Thanks, old fellow. That's enough for the moment," said Jack, whose face was still ashen gray. "Miss Desmond—"

Both boys wheeled together to speak to that splendid young woman. They paused with their lips open. Grace Desmond could not have heard them; she had fainted, lying inert across one of the seats.

"She's a brick—a wonder—clean grit," broke from Jack, softly, admiringly.

When Josh Owen saw Hal drop through the manhole, and then saw the submarine's dive arrested, he realized that it was time for instant flight. Yet, as he turned to dash away, he found himself confronting the muzzle of a revolver held by the night watchman, who had been outside the yard at a little distance, but whom Josh's firing had brought back on the run.

"Throw up your hands, Owen. You're my prisoner," said the watchman, crisply.

But the ex-foreman much preferred being shot to taken. Flourishing his weapon, he turned, making a dash for the street gate.

Then it was that the foreman fired the two shots heard by the young people on the "Pollard."

Both shots missed. Thereupon, the watchman lowered his weapon and dashed after the fugitive.

Eph Somers, coming down the street to go aboard, heard, the shots.

"Me for a high roost, if there's trouble," uttered Somers, dryly. He climbed the fence, close to the gate. An instant later Josh Owen darted out. As he passed, Eph, with a fine eye, measured the time, and dropped fairly a-straddle of the fleeing one's shoulders.

"Whoa, you big draft-horse!" chuckled Eph, holding on to Owen's head for grim life. Under the weight and the unexpected shock the ex-foreman sank to the sidewalk.

Had the night watchman continued the chase they would have had Josh Owen then and there. But the watchman, knowing that he was a poor sprinter, and that Josh was a fast one, turned, just inside the gate, to rush to the telephone and notify the constable.

So Josh, on his hands and knees, after he recovered from his first astonishment, found he had only Eph to fight. Young Somers was all grit when aroused, nor was he lacking in muscle. But he was no match for Josh. There was a brief, heated contest. Then Eph, dizzy from a blow in the chest that winded him, staggered back. Owen swiftly vanished in the darkness, but Eph, when he got to his feet again, clutched the empty revolver that he had twisted from Owen's hand.

So much racket of firearms on a still night had aroused many people. It was not long before there was a crowd at the yard. Mr. Farnum was quickly on the scene. Soon after him came David Pollard.

The rowboat was recovered and those on the submarine brought ashore. Grace Desmond's faint had been a short one; at the first dash of water in her face she had come out of her swoon. The handcuffs were quickly filed off Jack's wrists.

In the yard office as many persons as were admitted heard a tale that made them feel creepy.

"You splendid, brave girl!" cried Jacob Farnum, patting Miss Desmond's shoulder. Then he sent a man after a carriage to take the young woman to the home of her friends.

That night the yard's owner made announcement of a reward of one thousand dollars for Josh Owen's capture—dead or alive.

"That fellow has proved himself more dangerous than an ordinary lunatic, and he knows too much about submarine boats for my comfort. He's even capable, some dark night, of putting a mine under the 'Pollard' big enough to destroy her at anchorage."

"We'll have to keep deck watch through the night, then," proposed Jack Benson.

"Very well, Captain. I put you in command," smiled Mr. Farnum.

"I can keep a sharp lookout without the title of captain," responded the submarine boy.

"But you are going to be in charge of the boat—at least until she's sold to the Government or consigned to the junk-heap. So why not be captain from now on?"

Thus it was settled, off-hand. Jack flushed with delight. Had it been possible for him to be more loyal, or devoted to the interests of the builder, he would have been from that moment.

Jack took his own first deck-watch that night, dividing the remaining time up to six o'clock between Hal and Eph.

In the morning captain and crew had hardly more than finished breakfast when Jacob Farnum and Mr. Pollard came off from shore in the tender. Both looked highly pleased about something.

"I haven't mentioned anything about this before," announced the builder, "but I've been pulling some strong wires at Washington for some time. As a result I've just received orders from the Navy Department to attend the summer manoeuvres of the fleet at Cape Adamson. We're to have our trial by the Government there."

"How soon do we start?" cried Jack, eagerly.

"We'll start this afternoon, so as to be in plenty of time. It's only about a seven hours' run for us, though, and we're not expected at Cape Adamson before to-morrow evening. Can you be ready, Captain?"

"Why, there's nothing to do, sir, but to take aboard more gasoline and water. We can do that in an hour."

"We'll drop out to sea, then, about five o'clock this afternoon," decided Mr. Farnum, as he and the inventor rose. "Don't get flurried about anything, Captain Benson."

"Be very sure I won't, sir," replied Jack, earnestly. "And we'll be ready to start at the stroke of five. But I've been thinking, sir, and there's one question I want to ask. Does Grant Andrews go with us?

"No," replied Mr. Farnum, dropping his voice. "I need Grant for other work. The first hint I get at Cape Adamson that we have a winner in the way of a submarine, I'm going wire Andrews to start laying the keel for another. He has his orders, and knows what may be coming."

"We really ought to have a fourth member of the crew, sir," explained Captain Jack, "if we're to keep watch and perhaps run on long trips."

"I'll see if I can get someone who'll be any good to us," nodded Mr. Farnum, seriously. Then he and the inventor went ashore, leaving the young captain to the leisurely task of fitting for sea service.

The news that the "Pollard" was going to attend the naval manoeuvres at Cape Adamson soon became noised about Dunhaven, for Mr. Farnum saw no reason for holding back the nature of his orders from Washington. It was not long before groups of people gathered on the shore, on either side of the boat yard, to gaze with increased interest at the grim, mysterious looking submarine.

Before one o'clock Mr. Farnum put off in the tender with a stranger, a swarthy, stalwart, almost gigantic looking man of about forty.

"I've got you just the man you want, Captain," called the builder, joyously, as he came aboard. "Captain, this is Bill Henderson, late boatswain's mate, of the United States Navy. He knows all about our line of work, for his papers show that he has served aboard various submarine torpedo craft belonging to the Government. He's a crack helmsman, a navigator, and knows all about our kind of machinery."

During this introduction Henderson had saluted and scraped. He now stood at attention.

"The youngest captain I've ever sailed under, sir," he said to Jack. "But I'm satisfied you know the business, or Mr. Farnum wouldn't have given you the berth. At your orders, sir."

After Mr. Farnum had returned to shore Benson put his new hand through a searching quiz. If there was anything Boatswain's Mate Henderson did not know about submarine boat work, then the young captain was not able to find out what it was.

"Bill Henderson ought to be captain, not I," whispered Jack to his chum.

"If Mr. Farnum didn't find that out for himself," replied Hal, dryly, "don't tell him."

"This man Henderson is certainly a jewel for us," murmured Captain Jack.

At the moment the three boys were standing on the platform deck, while Henderson was stowing his limited baggage away below.

"Now, Cap, take this from me," muttered Eph, with the air of a wiseacre. "When a man seems a crackerjack at anything, and doesn't have as good a position as you think he ought to have, keep your eye on him."

"For what?" asked Captain Jack, smilingly.

"Oh, just to see what turns out to be wrong with the fellow."

"What can be, wrong with Henderson?"

"I didn't say anything was, did I?" queried Eph Somers.

"And I don't believe anything can be," responded Jack Benson, hopefully. "Mr. Farnum has looked over the man's Navy discharge papers, and Mr. Farnum isn't an easy one to take in."



CHAPTER XVII

IN THE GRIP OF HORROR

Before five o'clock that afternoon Dunhaven lined the water front. That is to say, fully five hundred people of the little seaport town were on hand. The "Pollard" was a local enterprise. If the great United States Government expected to buy the boat, the people of the village wanted to be on hand and give a rousing send-off to a homemade craft that might yet be destined to become famous.

Cheer after cheer went up. Hats, parasols and handkerchiefs were waved.

"I don't know," growled one old salt in the shore throng. "If it was a human sort of craft, meant to ride the waves as a good ship should, I'd have more faith in her. I'm afraid that boat'll go to the bottom one o' these days, an' forgit to come up again."

The old salt was promptly voted a croaker. Hadn't the "Pollard" been given abundant tests by her crew? Had she failed to come up yet? So the cheering redoubled when Captain Jack came up on the platform deck, followed by the builder and the inventor.

"Thank you, my friends!" shouted Jacob Farnum, making a trumpet of his hands. "We all thank you! Now, Captain Benson, make as handsome a flying start as you can." Jack already stood by the wheel, where he could reach all the controls. Down below the gasoline motor throbbed, making the hull vibrate. Power had been ready for the last ten minutes.

Captain Jack moved the speed wheel around to the six-mile notch. The twin propellers aft began to churn the water lazily, causing the "Pollard" to slip away from her moorings. Ere they had gone a hundred yards Jack swung on much more speed. By the time that the submarine reached the mouth of the little harbor she was traveling at eighteen miles an hour, her bow nosing into the waves and throwing up a fine spray, some of which reached the platform, deck. Astern, her propellers were tossing the water into a milky foam. Truly, she made a gallant sight!

For half a mile Captain Jack kept out to sea. Then he turned the craft's nose northward. For another hour the "Pollard" was kept at the same speed, behaving handsomely. Then Captain Jack turned the wheel over to big Bill Henderson, going below to have his supper with builder and inventor.

"As soon as the other watch have had supper," proposed Mr. Farnum, "I think, Captain, we'll drop fifty feet below the surface and run for an hour or more. The Navy men will want an even sterner test than that. We want to make sure that everything about the craft is running at the top notch of perfection. A fortune for Pollard, and another for myself, are at stake on what we show the Navy in the next three days."

"Oh, we can easily show them anything that any submarine craft can do," smiled Jack Benson, confidently. "And I'm certain we can show the Navy officers an ease of handling that isn't reached by any other submarine in the world."

"It's a good thing to have a confident captain," smiled David Pollard. "A confident captain, aboard a reliable boat, spells victory."

When the meal was over Captain Jack went back above to the wheel. There was no moon this night, but the stars shone brightly over the water. It was a warm night, with a gentle breeze, and only the gentlest swell to the water. The "Pollard" had been slowed down to twelve miles an hour, but there was still speed enough for the motion to be exhilarating.

"Oh, it's great to be captain of probably the most powerful and dangerous sea-terror in the world!" throbbed the boy, looking up at the stars. "How little I dreamed of this, a few months ago!"

"Going to be ready, now, for the dive and the hour's run under water, captain?" inquired Mr. Farnum, coming up on deck.

"In about ten minutes, sir," replied Jack, pointing forward over the port bow, "we'll be abreast of Point Villars light. Why not dive just abreast of that light? It will give us a starting point to reckon our run from."

"A good idea," nodded Mr. Farnum, and just then David Pollard came up from below. Both stood watching the young commander for some moments.

"Captain," remarked the inventor, "you handle the boat as easily as though you had been doing this sort of thing for years. You must have had some practice aboard rather goodsized craft?"

"Never anything much bigger than a thirty-foot gasoline boat," Jack replied. "In the old days, sir, a young sailor had to begin with a rowboat, go on to a cat-boat, and so work on up until he could handle a full-rigged ship. That's where the change has come with to-day's gasoline boats. A fellow who learns to run a twenty-foot gasoline launch can just as easily handle a big gasoline yacht of any size. The new style of power saves a heap of time in the learning, sir."

Captain Jack was now nearing a line abreast of the Point Villars light. He watched keenly. At last, when just abreast, he shouted down through the manhole:

"Shut off the gasoline power. Stand ready to turn on the electric power. Get ready to dive. Henderson, take the steering wheel in the conning tower."

Less than sixty seconds later the ventilators had been taken in, the manhole cover was made fast, and all were below, save Bill Henderson, who sat at the tower wheel, before him an electric lighted compass.

"Henderson," called Captain Jack, "steer north by northeast, one point off north."

"Aye, aye, sir," came from the seaman in the conning tower.

"Hold fast! Make ready to dive!" called the young captain.

Then, at the signal, Hal Hastings turned open the sea-valves into the diving tanks. Down shot the "Pollard," the young captain standing by the gauge to watch until they were fifty feet below.

"On even keel!" he shouted. Quickly the submarine regained her even keel, and ran along at eight miles an hour. Captain Jack Benson read the gauge once more, to make sure that they were fifty feet below the surface.

"And now, we've nothing to watch but the clock, until our hour is up," he laughed, dropping onto one of the seats and stretching. "Somehow, I notice none of us are as nervous as we were the first time this diving machine went down with us."

With the electric fans running it was cool and comfortable there, and the air, as pure as that above the ocean until the point of diving, would last for some time without renewing.

With no wind or, wave to buffet, and the steady electric power running the propeller shafts, the sensation was almost that of being aboard a boat at rest.

After they had run along thus, for a few minutes, Eph went up to take the wheel. As Bill Henderson came down below the young skipper noticed a bright gleam in the seaman's eyes, though he thought little of it.

Henderson went forward into the engine room, stretching himself out on the leather cushion of one of the seats.

"Ever run on a smoother boat than this below the surface, Henderson?" inquired Captain Jack, looking in through the engine room door.

"All submarines are alike to me, sir," replied Henderson, rather shortly.

"I guess he's been too long at the business to have any enthusiasm left, if he ever had any," muttered Benson to himself, and returned to the group in the cabin.

When one is accustomed to the life, and there is confidence in the boat, the main sensation when running along below the water's surface is one of great monotony. All one can possibly see is the interior of the boat and the persons of his comrades. The longer the run below water is continued the more pronounced does the feeling of monotony become. A well equipped submarine torpedo craft should be easily capable of running twenty-four hours continuously below the water, but the long continued monotony of such a length of time below would be almost certain to drive the officers and crew to a high pitch of nervous tension. Indeed, it is doubtful whether men of ordinary nervous powers could stand such a strain.

Before fifteen minutes had passed Jacob Farnum began to tell funny stories to make the time seem to pass more quickly. After ten minutes he gave this up, for he realized his hearers were becoming bored.

"Whew!" sighed Pollard. "An hour below the surface is certainly as long as twenty-four hours can be anywhere else!"

"I shall be glad when the hour is up," admitted Captain Jack, candidly. Yet no one proposed cutting the time short by returning to the surface sooner.

Hal Hastings climbed up into the conning tower to take the trick at the wheel for the last twenty minutes. Indeed, occupation of any sort helped to kill some of the time.

"I believe," laughed Jacob Farnum glancing about him, "we all feel just about as though we had lost confidence in the 'Pollard's' ability to rise when the time comes."

From the engine room came a burst of seaman's song. Bill Henderson was loudly crooning some ditty. Although the listeners could not mike out the words, the song had a gruesome sound that made one's flesh want to creep.

"Shall I tell him to stow that noise?" asked Captain Jack.

"No," replied Mr. Farnum, though he made a grimace. "If it cheers the fellow any let him have his melody."

Presently Henderson was singing another song. Those in the cabin paid little heed until the sailor's voice roared out the couplet:

_Down below went the good brig Mary!

She was heard from again—nary!_

"Say, that's fine!" muttered Eph Somers, in an undertone loaded with sarcasm.

The seaman's voice reached them now in a hushed undertone of murmured song. Later it swelled out into this gruesome forecastle refrain:

_Where the sharks go to pray,

And the dead men lay—

Where the crabs crawl to bite,

And the eels—_

"Henderson!" rang the young captain's voice sharply.

"Aye, aye, sir!" came a growl from the engine room.

"Save that song for the deck watch. We want to hear the clock tick."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The seaman was as good as his word. No more of the awesome ditty floated back from him.

The time yet to remain below surface narrowed down to ten minutes, then to five. At last, tick by tick, the time wound by until the full hour of submergence had been finished.

"Henderson!" shouted Captain Jack, leaping to his feet, "stand by to empty the water tanks!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" responded the big sailor, coming out of the engine room. He went to the proper rack, then turned to ask:

"Where's the wrench, sir?"

"Why, there in its rack, of course," cried Captain Benson, leaping forward. "You're looking at it."

"I'm looking at the rack, sir, but I don't see no wrench, sir," replied Henderson, calmly.

"What's that? The wrench mislaid?" demanded Jacob Farnum, also leaping forward and staring with dismayed eyes into the rack. "Oh, it has dropped—somewhere—or—been mislaid."

In another instant there was a frenzied search for that invaluable wrench, without which the "Pollard" could not be brought to the surface. So frantically did they search that they frequently got in each other's way. Hal Hastings shut off the speed and came tumbling down below to aid.

"Don't get excited, friends," begged Jacob Farnum, in a voice that shook. "Of course we're going to find the wrench. It's aboard—somewhere—of course it is. Now, let's begin a systematic search."

In a short time every conceivable nook and corner had been explored. Though it seemed absurd that the wrench should be lost, yet a fearful conviction began to settle down over the startled ones that it would not be found in time.

Even the breathing air of the "Pollard's" interior could not be renewed without the wrench. Though each strove to conceal his feelings from the others, grim horror soon had them all in its grip.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE LAST GASP OF DESPAIR

"I can't realize it yet, or believe it. It can't be true," shuddered David Pollard.

"We surely did," asserted Captain Jack.

"Could you swear that you have seen the wrench since we sailed?" asked Jacob Farnum, white-faced but cool.

"I—I can't quite say as to that," replied Benson, slowly. "But I will swear that I remember having seen it just a few minutes before we started."

"A few minutes—only?" insisted the builder.

"Yes, sir. I'm positive."

"For that matter," continued the builder, "there has been no one on board to-day save those who belong aboard."

"No; no one but ourselves has been on the boat to-day."

"None of us would throw it overboard, knowing how precious a tool it is," declared Mr. Farnum, glancing about him bewildered. "It was hardly possible to mislay such a thing by accident. Where on earth can it be, then?"

Again all hands started to hunt. Henderson was the first to sink to a seat as a sign that he gave up the search. The others barely glanced at him, so intent were all on the hunt that meant their only chance for life.

Yet at last they all sat down, panting, perspiring.

"Good heavens!" quivered the inventor. "We must soon begin to think of our very breath here. We can't exert ourselves as we have been doing. Whoever moves now, let him remember that he is using up the very life of others in the act of breathing!"

All but devoid of hope, they all remained sitting. At first they studied the floor, gloomily. At last they looked up, to read each other's faces. No hope was to be seen in any countenance.

"Thank heaven the electric light doesn't eat up air," shuddered Hal Hastings, at last. "It would be fearful to be alive—conscious—after it had become dark!"

"Don't!" shivered David Pollard, convulsively.

"Come, come, old chap," urged Farnum, laying a hand on his friend's arm, "you are not going to lose your courage?"

"I feel as if I ought to bear the whole punishment," groaned the inventor, covering his eyes with his hands. "It was I who invented this wretched boat!"

"But you didn't lose the wrench, or mislay it," broke in Eph Somers, with the intention of consoling.

"Who did mislay it?" pondered Captain Jack aloud. "If we could only settle that point, it might start us on the right track to finding the thing yet. For, of course, it's on board."

The certainty that the wrench must be somewhere on the boat brought all to their feet, though this time they rose slowly, almost painfully.

After a few minutes the search became listless. At Hal's suggestion, made with a wan smile, each even searched through his own baggage. Pantry and galley were patiently ransacked.

"I've heard of such things being lost before, in the simplest way, and defying all search for a long time," mused Hal, aloud. "It may be the same with that precious wrench. But the difference, this time, is that we shan't be here long to wait for it to turn up unexpectedly."

Farnum dropped into a seat again, and that started the rest, until all had taken seats. From one to another, dumb, moody looks were passed. Each was wonderingly asking himself the same question that none would have thought of framing in words. How much longer could the air last in a pure enough condition to sustain six lives?

Eph Somers chuckled, absently, then looked up, startled and ashamed. The others gazed at him, comprehendingly. Each knew that Eph was thinking how idiotic it was for six human beings to sit, in perfect health, waiting until the soiling of the air about them killed them all. It was a terrible thought; Eph's mirth was of the hysterical kind.

Finally, after some minutes had passed, Jack Benson dragged himself to his feet.

He was amazed, at first thought, to find out how every joint and muscle in his body ached. He felt as weary as though he had been without sleep for a month.

Then he understood. The dreadful lassitude was caused by the withdrawing of the life-giving oxygen from the air. The oxygen was still there, but combined with the carbon from lungs and blood to form carbonic acid gas, which, in large quantities, is fatal to life.

When Jack moved about now, feeling, dully, as though a cane on which to lean would be a great boon, the others got to their feet with evident effort and joined in one more despairing search.

This hunt ended as the others had done, only more quickly. The only places into which they had been able to look for the missing wrench were the same places that had been vainly examined twice before.

This time it seemed to cause pain even to sit down. How much longer could the torment last, ere death came mercifully to their relief?

"It seems as though I ought to reach out my hand and lay it on the wrench," muttered Captain Jack Benson, to Henderson, next to whom he found himself sitting.

The former boatswain's mate smiled a ghastly smile, his eyes glowing bright like coals. Jack turned, with a shiver, away from the strange glint in the big fellow's eyes.

"Friends," said Mr. Farnum, presently, "we may as well realize the whole situation, and agree to face it like men. We can't find the wrench. Wherever it is, we are not going to find it. The little breathable air that is left us here is not going to last more than a few minutes. We will not waste any more of that air in getting up to make useless searches. Let us be as calm as possible. Perhaps each man had better look down at the floor, and so continue to look. At the end—the end!—let no one, I beg of you, raise his eyes to witness the final sufferings of any comrade."

There was an awed pause.

"Is that agreed to?" asked Farnum, huskily.

"Yes," came in hoarse whispers. There was another long silence—long as time must now be measured, for a breath, now, was as long as an hour on the surface.

It was big Bill Henderson who spoke next.

"Gentlemen," he announced, "the lord of battles and of spring flowers and breezes is displeased with us. He is taking this method to punish us as we deserve. Yet in that punishment we shall find pardon, too. Though we suffer now, we shall know joy when this life is ended."

Somehow, the speech stirred up resentment in the minds of the hearers.

"Could any death be more glorious?" demanded the seaman. "We are blessed with the privilege of serving as our own sacrifices!"

"The poor chap's mind is going first," whispered Mr. Farnum, pityingly, to Captain Jack.

"I don't understand what he's talking about," whispered Benson.

"Don't be surprised at that. Neither does he know," muttered Jacob Farnum.

"Are you jesting or mocking," broke in Henderson, half-angrily, "at the very moment when you should be getting ready for the glory of giving the last gasp of despair?"

"Give the last gasp, if you want to," retorted Eph, with savage irony, "and let us sit here in peace."

"Can anyone think," suggested Jack, "of any possible place in which we have not yet looked for that wrench?"

"I'm—too—tired to—think," drowsed Hal.

His voice startled the others. Now, that they came to examine their own conditions a bit more keenly, they began to understand that they, too, were fast sinking into a drowsy state.

Was the coming end, too, to be painless?

"There's no use looking," replied Jacob Farnum, in answer to Jack's question. "There isn't a single place left to explore. We—"

Whether Mr. Farnum thus broke off because he had lost his thought, or whether he dreaded to say the omitted words, none of the others even troubled to guess.

Bill Henderson started in to sing. There were a few angry gasps of protest until the others slowly realized that the air sounded like that of some hymn. The words, however, were in a foreign tongue, picked up in the course of the seaman's wanderings over the world.

Then their resentment softened. If Bill preferred to meet the end with a hymn on his lips, perhaps that was the best thing for all of them.

It crept over them, now, that they felt choking sensations, with pain and buzzing in their ears. Then the end must be near. Unconsciousness, at any rate. That loss of the senses would be the end, so far as any of them could know.

"Now, give thanks with your last real thoughts," cried Bill, hoarsely. "Gentlemen—this is—glorious! We're going fast! The last—croak—is upon us! Good—bye!"



CHAPTER XIX

JACK STRIKES THE KEY TO THE MYSTERY

"Down below! Down, down, down!" croaked Bill Henderson.

He pointed below, with one forefinger, laughing wildly. The others, sure that the seaman had lost his mind under the crushing force of the catastrophe, felt pity for him, though the man's actions and words also helped to increase their own terror.

To cap the climax Henderson got painfully to his feet and tried to dance a jig. That was carrying things too far in the then state of mind of the rest of the company.

"Henderson, confound you," cried Captain Jack, half savagely, as he rose, "keep quiet and sit down! Act like a man. You—"

To emphasize his order the young captain pushed against the seaman's breast, intent on shoving him into a seat. Just as he did so, Captain Jack paused aghast, for an instant. Then he shouted hoarsely:

"Friends, I've found the wrench!"

That brought them all to their feet, while Bill Henderson snarled in sudden rage.

"This man has it hidden away in the inside pocket of his coat!" cried the young captain of the "Pollard." "Help me to take it away from him while we've enough life left to act!"

With another snarl Bill Henderson crouched, in the attitude of a football player, to meet the impending assault.

Five of them swarmed upon him, from all sides. Had not all of them been near to dying from air starvation the conflict would have been a savage one. As it was, the fight, although a relatively weak one, was as strenuous as any of the combatants could make it.

Henderson, ordinarily a powerful brute capable of fighting three or four ordinary men, still endeavored to do his very best.

Back and forth they fought, rolling over each other, and every moment burning up more and more of the air that was left to them.

Yet at last Captain Jack, aided by the others, succeeded in snatching the wrench from the seaman's inner pocket.

"Hold him," cried Benson, getting weakly up, tottering over to one of the compressors. "Give me a minute—and some—strength—and I'll give us a taste—of real air."

Desperately he fitted the wrench, tried to give it a sufficient turn, and could not.

"I'll help you," hoarsely croaked dying Hal, reaching out and getting the weight of his hands also on the wrench. Never before had either boy struggled so desperately hard for anything. At last it yielded, ever so little. There was a hiss of escaping compressed air.

Then they got a taste of it. Oh, how nectarlike that air was! Renewed strength began to course through their arteries and to creep into their muscles. Two deep breaths apiece, and then Jack and Hal succeeded in making a good turn. A moment later they were able to make another twist, that set the pneumatic apparatus in operation to expel the bad air through sea valves.

But Bill Henderson, too, was reviving. Uttering hoarse cries of rage that sounded wonderfully more powerful, now, he fought his three captors to get upon his feet.

There was no help for it. Captain Jack had to dart over and tap the fellow on the head with the wrench. Then Bill was quiet long enough to make it possible, for Mr. Farnum to hurry after a pair of the handcuffs that were a part of ship's stores. These were snapped over the seaman's wrists just before he came to.

"Now, we won't have to hurt him," muttered Jack, compassionately. "He's a maniac, poor chap, or he'd never have done such a thing as try to condemn us all, himself included, to death in the depths by asphyxiation."

"He's a maniac, sure enough," commented Mr. Farnum. "But how on earth did I ever get trapped into hiring such a fellow as one of the crew? Confound him, he seemed sane enough until after we came below the surface."

"And now, sir," nudged Captain Jack, "I think we'd all of us be thankful enough for a glimpse of the surface—for a look at the stars—a breath of real ocean breeze."

"Good enough," nodded the boat-builder. "Travel right to it!"

Though all were weak and trembly from the shock of their late experience, there was strength enough in their combined force to handle the "Pollard" promptly.

While Messrs. Farnum and Pollard sat over the prostrate Henderson, handcuffed on the floor, Hal hurried to the engine room, while Captain Jack climbed up into the conning tower. Eph Somers stood near the two men and their captive, ready to respond to any call.

But Henderson, now that his maniacal rage had passed, was sobbing quietly. He seemed spent, exhausted.

It was with a thrill that the young captain of the submarine touched the control for speed ahead from the electric equipment. Then he looked at his compass, finding that the boat, from a northerly heading, had veered around almost east. As the boat went ahead, softly, Benson put the course around to north. Then he called to Hal and Eph to empty the diving tanks by degrees.

"Going up on even keel!" asked young Hastings.

"Surest thing I know," replied the young captain.

Though there was not much motion, all felt the boat gradually rising. Then Captain Jack suddenly caught the greater comparative light of the night above the water. Next, he caught sight of the blessed stars. But he did not stop the work of Hal and Eph until the boat rode well up out of the water.

"Now, come up and get the manhole open," called the young skipper. "Let's all have a notion again of how it feels to stand in the open air."

Messrs. Farnum and Pollard had, by this time, completed the captivity of Bill Henderson by wrapping around him and securing many and many a turn of half-inch rope.

As the manhole was opened Captain Jack stepped out, taking the deck wheel. The others, all except the prisoner, crowed out after him. Thus they ran along for a mile or two, under the slower electric power.

"That crazy fellow," uttered Jacob Farnum, "had some mania on his mind that we were all great sinners, and that he'd save the whole lot of us by killing us under water."

"It seems strange," muttered Hal, "for even a crazy man to have the nerve to destroy himself slowly in such a way."

"Humph, no; nothing new in that line," returned Mr. Farnum.

"What are we going to do with him, sir?" inquired Captain Jack.

"Well, we're not going to turn in at any of the coast towns to give him up," replied the builder. "We'll keep right along until we join the fleet, and then we'll ask the advice of some naval officer."

When, at last, all had become accustomed to the world to which they had returned, Hal and Eph went below, to turn on the gasoline power a short time the "Pollard" was kicking the water at the exhilarating gait of eighteen miles an hour.

"How did it come, sir, that you made it eighteen miles, instead of knots?" asked Captain Jack, after a while.

"Why, that's the basis on which gasoline engines are built," replied Mr. Farnum. "For that matter, captain, when we've had more practice with this boat we'll tune the engine up to eighteen full knots an hour. In the second boat we are going to try for an assured speed of twenty-two to twenty-four knots."

"It seems to me," said Jack, musingly, "that the ideal submarine torpedo boat ought to have a speed of from twenty-eight, to thirty-five knots."

"Why?"

"So that the speed of the submarine boat shall always be ahead of the speed of any battleship afloat."

"Again, why?"

"Why, so that the submarine can give effective chase to a battleship."

"But submarines are intended only to go with fleets of their own country, or else to remain on station at or near the mouths of harbors to be defended."

"All well and good," argued Captain Jack, nodding. "In future wars a battleship fleet is likely to keep away from any harbor known to be defended by the enemy's submarine boats. But, if a submarine torpedo boat could have speed enough to give chase to a fleeing battleship, and sink when within range of the battleship's guns, yet still be able to pursue, under water, and destroy the battleship, that would mean the day when battleships wouldn't be of any further use, wouldn't it?"

"Undoubtedly," admitted Mr. Farnum. "But you see, captain, so far as present human ingenuity goes, a boat can't be built to sail as fast under water as another can be made to go on the surface."

"But that's the problem I'm going to tackle, as soon as I get our plans a little further along," murmured David Pollard, eagerly. "Benson is right. When we get a submarine boat that can pursue the fastest battleship, on the surface or below it, then the United States, with a hundred such submarines, could defy the combined naval powers of the world. If the United States can own a large fleet of such boats, then we can control the seas of the world."

No more attempts at diving were made on the trip. The horror of that last dive remained with all, safe as they now were.

All the way the "Pollard," though well out from shore, ran within sight of the light-houses.

Shortly before two o'clock in the morning Captain Jack Benson, again at the deck wheel, steered in for the light at Cape Adamson. He was going at slow speed as he rounded the point and headed in for the bay.

"Be careful how you go, captain, and be on the alert to obey signals," cautioned Mr. Farnum. "We've got to thread our way into a perfect hornet's nest of war craft. A dozen battle ships, several cruisers and a flotilla of torpedo boats are at anchor over yonder."

It wasn't long before the searchlight of one of the battleships picked up the "Pollard" with its broad ray. Then, from the flagship the colored lights that blazed out and faded spelled the signal:

"Who are you?"

"Pollard, submarine," replied the little craft's signal lights.

"Expected. Come in close for orders," came the signaled answer.

There was something sombre, grim, awesome about this great fleet of mighty fighting craft as the young captain stole his boat in among them. These craft represented much of Uncle Sam's fighting strength, a bulwark of safety, to our coasts and commerce.

Close up within megaphone-hailing distance Captain Jack ran his boat. The watch officer of the "Columbia," the battleship that served as flagship to the fleet, stood with megaphone ready.

"Ahoy, 'Pollard'!" he called.

"Ahoy, flagship!" Captain Jack answered through a megaphone.

"Fleet patrol boat will show you to your anchorage. Are your owners aboard?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, in the morning, they will hear from the admiral."

"One moment, sir," Captain Jack shouted back. "We have aboard a maniac, a man who tried to destroy us on the trip down. He has naval discharge papers."

"His name?"

"William Henderson."

"Henderson? Wait a moment!" came back from the flagship's rail.

Those on the "Pollard's" deck saw a younger officer leave the watch officer and hurry away. This younger officer soon returned with a paper which he handed to the watch officer.

"'Pollard' ahoy!" came from the latter.

"Flagship ahoy!"

"William Henderson was an inmate of a naval hospital, where he had been sent to be watched on a suspicion of lunacy. A few days ago he escaped. We'll take him off your hands and see he is sent back where he belongs."

"Thank you, flagship."

The fleet patrol boat, which had been hovering near, a small cabin launch, now steamed in alongside the submarine. An ensign and four men came aboard. Captain Jack led them below, pointing out Henderson. The four sailors lifted him, carrying him up and over the side to their own boat.

"Now, follow us, captain," directed the ensign, "and we'll lead you to your anchorage."

Five minutes later the "Pollard" rode snugly at anchor, with all made trim and secure. But Captain Jack and his two boy friends, despite the lateness of the hour, were in no hurry to turn in below.

It was the first glimpse any of the trio had ever had of such an imposing war fleet, and all wanted to stay on deck drinking in the glory of the sight.



CHAPTER XX

"ONE ON" THE WATCH OFFICER

At nine o'clock the next morning Messrs. Farnum and Pollard were sent for to report aboard the flagship, where they had a long talk with Admiral Bentley.

The result was somewhat disappointing. During the manoeuvres a board of naval officers would be sent aboard the "Pollard" to observe what she could do in surface running, diving, etc. The "Pollard," however, was not to be included in any of the deep-sea manoeuvres of attack and defense, as there were already two Government submarines with the fleet, and the work of these had been mapped out.

"However, that's the best we can do, and we must be satisfied," sighed Jacob Farnum to Captain Jack. "We'll find plenty of chance to show what we can do, and I know the Navy officers will see that we get a fair show at Washington."

"Of course," nodded Captain Benson, loyally. "When they see just what a handy craft the 'Pollard' is at all times, they'll be wild to have a few 'Pollards' in the Navy."

"That's the way to talk," beamed the anxious inventor, all of whose hopes of the future were based on the developments of these few days.

"It's the way to talk, sir," replied Captain Jack, "because it's the truth. We'll show these Navy folks so much about the 'Pollard' that, being men of good sense, they'll see the point."

In the afternoon several delegations of naval officers visited the little submarine from the different craft in the fleet. The tiny cabin was crowded with visitors, the air being thick with cigar smoke much of the time. What astounded many of the visitors was the extreme youthfulness of captain and crew, but Jacob Farnum assured the naval callers that these young men had accomplished all that had been done with the 'Pollard' up to date.

"And I'm going to be wholly satisfied, gentlemen," added the builder, "with the impression that will be made upon you by what my crew of boys can show you."

"Why, your boy crew is your strong point," laughed Captain Carew. "You're building a type of submarine so simple that any child can handle it above or below water."

All present joined in the laugh at this sally, but Mr. Farnum took it in good part declaring:

"That is just the idea, Captain Carew. We have the simplest, most effective submarine boat that it is possible to build."

All of the visitors were inclined to take this view, from an inspection of the simple running methods of the boat. Of course, none of the visitors had seen the "Pollard" dive or run beneath the surface, but they were willing to accept the statements of builder and inventor.

One naval officer, however, was sceptical on the whole subject of submarine torpedo boats. That gentleman was Lieutenant McCrea, of the huge battleship "Luzon."

"Of course," remarked Lieutenant MeCrea, "there's a whole lot of good theory about what submarine torpedo boats can do. In different naval evolutions, I admit, the submarines have made an excellent theoretical showing. As far as can be determined in peaceful evolutions it looks as though the submarine might really be a source of great danger to a hostile battleship.

"But, in actual war, conditions are different from anything that can be planned during mere evolutions. In war time the nerves of both officers and men are more keenly attuned. So, in actual war, I think it very doubtful whether a submarine could succeed in getting up close to a big battleship, unseen, and delivering the mortal blow."

That started a good deal of lively discussion. A few of the Navy officers present favored Lieutenant McCrea's view. More, however, were inclined to the belief that, as time went on, the more and more perfected submarine torpedo boat would become a greater and greater danger to the battleship, very likely in the end driving the battleship from the navies of the world.

"Humph!" muttered Lieutenant McCrea. "Lying here in the bay I am willing to admit that a submarine can sail under the hull of the vessel I'm stationed on. But I'd like to see the submarine that could creep up alongside, showing ever so little of itself, even on the darkest night, without being detected."

"You think, sir," interposed Captain Jack, quietly, "that, if you were in command of the deck at the time, you'd detect any submarine boat that showed any portion of itself above the water?"

"Think?" retorted Lieutenant McCrea, with warmth. "No; I don't think anything of the sort. I'd detect any such trick in time to turn a rapid fire gun loose on the venturesome submarine!"

"Every time, sir?" asked Jack, calmly.

"Every time!" retorted the lieutenant, with emphasis.

Young Benson was wise enough not to attempt to take too much of a part in the conversation with so many experienced naval officers present. Yet he remained, listening, for the talk was highly instructive.

"I'll have to go up and signal for my boat," declared Lieutenant McCrea, rising, at last. "I want a bit of sleep, for I'm watch officer on the 'Luzon' to-night, from dog watch to midnight."

After the lieutenant had gone, Captain Jack suddenly rose, hastening to the platform deck, where Hal Hastings stood on watch.

"What's the matter?" demanded Hal, looking keenly at his chum.

"Why?"

"Why, your face is nearly all one broad grin."

"Oh, I'm thinking a bit," Jack answered, evasively.

"Happy thoughts, then," mocked Hastings, amiably. "I can tell by the grinful look of your face."

"Yes, it's something lively that I'm thinking about," laughed young Benson.

Over the supper table, that evening, Captain Jack announced the scheme that had entered his mind while listening to Lieutenant McCrea.

Jacob Farnum listened, at first, somewhat thunderstruck. Then, of a sudden, he laid down his knife and fork, bursting into a roar of laughter.

"It sounds like a fearfully cheeky thing to do, I know," confessed the young captain.

"It surely is," confirmed David Pollard, nervously.

"Yet," pursued young Benson, "if the trick should succeed, how it would take the conceit out of some people who don't believe in submarines."

"Wouldn't it?" rejoined Mr. Farnum, his eyes twinkling with merriment.

"Yet you don't intend to try it, do you?" asked the inventor.

"I don't know," confessed Mr. Farnum. "But I'll admit this much—I'm certainly thinking hard over the scheme that Captain Benson has proposed."

"It would be unfortunate if we did the thing, and only succeeded in offending the officers of the Navy," pursued the inventor, an extremely thoughtful look on his pallid, thin face.

"Oh, of course, as far as the mere expense goes, I'd pay the bill for the trick," Farnum went on. "To tell the truth. Dave, the point I'm considering most now is, whether we can really successfully play the trick that Captain Benson has sprung on us."

"I believe we can; don't believe there'll be any difficulty whatever," declared the young captain, his eyes glowing.

"Well, I'm going to think it over a while," announced the builder, as he finished his meal.

He went directly up to the platform deck, seating himself on a folding chair. From the loud chuckles that came, from time to time, from the platform deck, it was plain that the boatbuilder had had his sense of humor mightily tickled.

Presently, the hail came:

"Benson, come up here, won't you?"

As Jack reported to the builder Farnum stood looking across the bay.

"Captain, how are we going to get at the exact distance between our boat and the 'Luzon'?"

"It's a question of mathematics, isn't it?" asked Jack, slowly. "Mr. Pollard is the expert in that line, isn't he?"

"Oh, I say, Dave," bawled the builder down the stairway. "Come up here, won't you? Now, how far is it from our moorings to those of the 'Luzon'?"

There being still enough daylight for the purpose, Mr. Pollard brought up a small transit. Measuring a base-line on the deck of the submarine, he took two observations, then went below to do some rapid figuring.

"Exactly 1,142 feet, from mooring to mooring," he called up through the manhole, presently.

"If you've got the distance down as fine as that," laughed back Mr. Farnum, "good enough!"

"Are you going to try to play Benson's trick, then?" asked the inventor, reappearing on deck.

"I'm inclined to think," replied the boatbuilder, "that I am. It seems like too good a thing to miss."

On board the "Pollard" the cabin lights burned late that evening. Once the plan invented by Captain Jack was explained to the others all hands turned to, in great glee, to make preparations.

Ships of any size always carry, as a part of the cruising supplies, a stock of paints and brushes. The submarine craft was so provided.

Jack caused to be brought from one of the lockers a can of prepared white paint. This was thinned with oil and tested for the business in hand. Then the best brush for the purpose was picked out. To this was fitted a long handle. Two short sticks had to be spliced to make a handle of sufficient length.

"How are you on lettering, Captain?" guffawed Mr. Farnum, while preparations were thus being made.

"Nothing extra," Jack admitted. "But I guess I can at least make legible letters."

All was in readiness long before need came. At about quarter past eleven o'clock that night the "Pollard" noiselessly slipped from her moorings. At that time none of the searchlights of the fleet at anchor happened to be turned toward the submarine boat.

Ventilators were taken in, the manhole cover was closed, lights were extinguished, and, the next instant, the "Pollard" began to sink. Only one light burned aboard, and that came from a small lantern in the engine room, where Hal Hastings crouched over the electric motor, keeping strict track of the revolutions. While Jack Benson steered strictly to compass, Hal counted the revolutions until the number had been reeled off to carry the submarine the estimated distance under water. Then Hal shut off speed, while Eph Somers passed word to the young captain.

"Let her come up slowly, until I give the word," called down Captain Jack. "Don't rush with the raising."

So compressed air was turned into the diving tanks, slowly expelling the water therefrom. Very slowly the "Pollard" rose. Jack, watching intently, knew the instant that the conning tower's top was above waves.

"Stop," he called down. Just ahead, about sixty feet, lay the seaward side of the battleship "Luzon's" great gray hull. With his hand on the electric speed control Captain Jack moved the submarine in until she lay alongside the big battleship.

With the greatest stealth the manhole cover was raised by Hal and Eph. Captain Jack, in the meantime, was rapidly shedding his clothing, until he stood forth in a bathing suit only. Clad in this garment he slipped out over the top of the conning tower. The platform deck was under water, but Benson touched it with his feet.

"No hail from the deck above," he whispered to Hal. "Now, pass me the paint and brush like lightning."

The brush was passed out, the paint can being rested on the edge of the manhole, where Hal steadied it. Taking up a good sopping of paint on the brush, Captain Benson rapidly sketched, on the gray side of the battleship a letter "P" some six feet long.

Then, with rapid strokes, he swiftly finished the entire word:

"Pollard."

As the "Luzon" lay on the outer edge of the anchored fleet, and the submarine lay alongside on the seaward side, there was no danger of any betraying searchlight being turned on the perpetrators of this huge joke.

"It's all done," whispered Jack, chuckling softly, "and that wonderful watch officer above hasn't hailed us or passed the word for the marine guard!"

"That man McCrea will claim it wasn't done during his watch," whispered Eph. "Paint on the exact present time. It's just 11.33."

So Captain Jack, again chuckling, and with a fresh brushful of paint, wrote the present time on the battleship's gray side.

All in a twinkling, afterward, the submarine, her manhole closed, dropped down beneath the waves. She was soon back at her anchorage, lying on the surface of the water as though this handy little craft had not just been engaged in perpetrating the biggest naval joke of the year!



CHAPTER XXI

THE MAN WHO DROPPED THE GLASS

Early the next morning there was, as might be imagined, a big stir of excitement in the fleet.

First of all, one of the fleet patrol launches discovered the legend lettered in white, on a gray background, on the Lizon's side.

As soon as the matter was reported aboard, the executive officer, after ordering a side gangway lowered, and going down close to the water's edge for a look, sent for the different watch officers of the night.

Each was emphatic in the belief that the thing did not happen during his watch. Lieutenant McCrea was one of the most positive.

"But, Mr. McCrea," urged the "Luzon's" executive officer, "the time, '11.33 P.M.,' has been lettered on the ship's side with great distinctness."

Still, that lieutenant was positive that the outrage hadn't been perpetrated during his deck watch. He had kept much too vigilant a watch for that.

While the questioning of the watch officers was going on the "Luzon's" captain appeared. He quizzed Mr. McCrea unmercifully, and that officer of the early night watch began to look and feel most uncomfortable.

"There's but one thing to be done, first of all," stated the "Luzon's" commander, Captain Bigelow. "Send a boat over to the 'Pollard' to ask the people there if they have any explanation to offer."

When the "Luzon's" launch came alongside, Mr. Farnum, expecting the visit, assured the ensign in charge that he would go to the battle ship at once to explain matters. Mr. Farnum did go. Captain Bigelow listened with an intensely grave face. Lieutenant McCrea seemed to be in the depths of mortification, and his face was very red.

"There is but one thing to be done, now, Mr. Farnum," declared Captain Bigelow, severely. "We shall have to appear before Admiral Bentley, on his flagship, as soon as he will receive us. You must repeat your explanation to him."

This Mr. Farnum was quite willing to do. Before the boatbuilder finished with his explanation to the fleet's commander there was a very decided twinkle in Admiral Bentley's sharp old eyes.

"I accept your explanation, Mr. Farnum, that it was all a joke," smiled the admiral.

"Of course," Jacob Farnum made haste to add, "having perpetrated such a hoax, I shall charge myself with all the expense of painting out the objectionable lettering."

"But I am not sure that that will be necessary," Admiral Bentley laughed. "The truth is, Mr. Farnum, your hoax on Mr. McCrea has taught us a most excellent and valuable lesson about the sort of other work that a submarine might do against a battleship at anchor. The lesson is worth far more than the cost of the paint. Indeed, I shall not have the lettering on the 'Luzon's' side painted out until other officers of the fleet have been able to examine such a striking proof of the value of submarines. Yet I am extremely sorry for the feelings of Mr. McCrea this morning."

In truth, Lieutenant McCrea was in for a most unmerciful tormenting by his brother officers. If there was one thing on which the lieutenant prided himself, it was upon the strictness of his deck watch. So the jest, jibes and quips of his brother officers stung him deeply.

"Was the hoax your idea, Mr. Farnum?" asked Admiral Bentley.

"No, sir; I am sorry to say that I am not often as brilliant as that."

"Then whose joke was it?"

"It was the scheme of Captain Jack Benson, the 'Pollard's' present commander."

"I have heard of your boyish captain," smiled Admiral Bentley. "He must be a very resourceful young man."

"You're right in saying that," replied Farnum, with warmth. "Benson is altogether about the brightest boy I've ever met. For that matter, all three of the boys are unusually keen."

Admiral Bentley consulted a memorandum book that lay on his desk, before he went on:

"Mr. Farnum, if you've nothing in the way, I shall be extremely glad to have Mr. Pollard and yourself at luncheon at one o'clock this afternoon. But I shall feel much disappointed if you do not also bring with you your youthful captain, Benson."

Farnum promptly accepted, with great delight. This all looked as though the "Pollard" would figure handsomely in the admiral's forthcoming reports to Washington.

Ere the morning was over all the officers and men of the great war fleet were laughing at Lieutenant McCrea. The newspaper correspondents with the fleet got hold of the yarn, of course, and sent stories to their journals that helped to make the fame of the "Pollard" and of those who handled her.

As for McCrea, he kept out of sight all he could. It was months before his brother officers in the Navy would let him hear the last of the joke that had been played upon him.

"Has it hurt us any?" repeated Jacob Farnum, when he returned to the submarine. "It has helped us wonderfully. And, Jack, my boy, you're to lunch with the admiral to-day!"

In fact, that joke of Jack's was heard of in the halls of Congress later on. The significant fact of it all was that, while the "Pollard" had been manoeuvred for the successful perpetration of the joke, neither of the other two submarines with the fleet was "handy" enough to be used in quite such a neat trick.

When a United States rear-admiral entertains guests at luncheon aboard his flagship, the affair is a stately one. When our three friends appeared at table there were several naval officers in attendance.

"I have been laughing a good deal to-day, Captain Benson, over the joke sprung on us last night," was Admiral Bentley's greeting. "It was cleverly carried out, and with a great deal of skill in seamanship as well."

"It wasn't intended, sir, to be so much a joke as a demonstration of what our boat can accomplish," Jack replied, modestly.

"I haven't lost sight of the practical side of the affair, I assure you," rejoined the admiral. "But I am afraid I have wounded one heart—McCrea's."

"Then I am very sorry," replied Jack, quickly. "I had hoped he would feel as much like laughing as anyone."

"Mr. McCrea might feel more like laughing, if it weren't for the fact that his brother officers insist on doing his laughing for him," chuckled the admiral.

The talk now turned upon the "Pollard's" construction, which the inventor explained, while Jacob Farnum threw in a few words now and then. Captain Jack had the good taste to remain silent during this discussion. Admiral Bentley asked many questions, appeared deeply interested, and promised to make a thorough trip of inspection aboard the submarine.

"The time may come, of course," said the admiral, musingly, "when a flag officer will have to make his headquarters aboard such a little craft, for the day may not be far distant when battleships will be too cumbrous and too costly to be risked any more at sea when a nation is engaged in war."

"That's our captain's view of the possibilities," nodded Mr. Farnum.

"It will be a sad blow to some of us old salts," laughed the admiral. "It isn't likely to strike me, of course. I shall be retired, and done with the service, before the big battleship becomes as useless in war as a ferryboat. But you, Captain Benson, will very likely live to see the day when the battleships will be sold for freight steamers. By the way, my young friend, what is your age? Sixteen. Why, you are young enough to enter Annapolis. With your bent for things naval, why don't you try to interest your home Congressman in appointing you as a cadet?"

"If the battleship is to go, sir," replied the youngster, "or even if the submarine is to become a vastly more important craft, it seems to me that I shall be seizing the biggest chance by staying right with Mr. Farnum and Mr. Pollard. The greatest naval man of the future may be the all-around submarine expert."

"There, again, I am inclined to think you are right, Captain Benson," nodded the old admiral, thoughtfully. "My, but I often wish I could look forward, as you may, to being alive fifty years from now—living to see what sea warfare will be like then!"

While Jack Benson was listening or talking, he became conscious that one of the noiseless stewards waiting at table was eyeing him keenly, even if covertly, at such times as he approached.

The steward in question was brownhaired and smoothly shaven, a man of about fifty years of age who carried himself with much dignity. When Jack got his first good look at this man, the submarine boy felt certain that the steward's hair was dyed to its present color. There was something altogether familiar about the man's look, too, that puzzled young Benson.

Now, during a lull in the conversation, and between courses, this steward approached the table to replace young Benson's water-glass, which he had just filled.

As the steward reached out to set the glass down Jack wheeled, looking straight into the man's eyes.

The steward returned the look and paled, then—

Crash! The glass dropped from the man's fingers, breaking to fragments on the cabin floor.

With a softly-muttered word, the luckless steward bent, picked up the pieces of glass and beat a hasty retreat, followed by a heavy frown from the chief steward.

Then, all of a sudden, it flashed through the boy's mind where he had seen this man before.

Leaning toward Jacob Farnum, the submarine boy whispered:

"You've been trying hard to find Grace Desmond's fugitive guardian."

"I don't know what I wouldn't give to come up with that rascal!" muttered the boatbuilder fervently, his eyes blazing.

"Then I guess you're going to have your wish," continued Jack Benson. "The man who dropped the glass is—Arthur Miller."

Uttering an eager cry, his fists clenched, Jacob Farnum started up from his chair.



CHAPTER XXII

A DIVE THAT WAS LIKE MAGIC

"What's wrong?" demanded Admiral Bentley, looking up quickly.

"I—I beg your pardon, sir," cried Mr. Farnum, though lowering his voice, "but I want a good look at the steward who has been attending to this end of the table."

"Nothing will be more simple," replied the admiral.

Just at that moment another steward entered the room.

"Ask that new steward to come here," directed the admiral.

The man hastened away in search of his mate.

"Pardon me, but is there any unusual reason why you wish to see that particular steward?" asked the admiral, in a low voice.

"The only reason, sir," replied Mr. Farnum dryly, "is that my friend, Benson, is certain the fellow is identical with the defaulting guardian of a young woman at present employed in my office. He is believed to have taken the last half-million dollars remaining of her fortune away with him into hiding."

"A half million dollars!" gasped the admiral.

"If this steward is the man we think he is, then his right name is Arthur Miller," finished the boatbuilder.

"Why, I remember that case. I read of it in the newspapers," replied Admiral Bentley. "Jove, gentlemen, but I hope your guess is a correct one. There must always be a satisfaction in catching so great a rogue so easily."

Only those at the admiral's end of the table had heard this dialogue. Other guests present continued eating, or chatting with their neighbors. Other stewards were entering and leaving in the discharge of their duties.

Some time passed. Farnum was fidgeting, though he strove to conceal the fact. Jack looked quiet, but his heart was thumping.

"Steward Dugan!" called the admiral, rather sharply, and the man stepped over quickly.

"I sent Hecht after that new steward," declared the admiral. "Hecht hasn't come back. Find him on the jump and learn his reason for the delay."

In something like a minute more both Dugan and Hecht returned.

"I couldn't find Dudley, sir," reported Hecht. "I've looked for him everywhere that he ought to be."

"Then find the first officer on duty that you can, and, with my compliments, ask him to report instantly," ordered Admiral Bentley.

In barely more than a jiffy a young lieutenant of marine stepped into the room, saluting the admiral.

"Lieutenant, a new steward known as Dudley is being sought for. Order the guard at the side gangway to let no one overboard, unless he is certain that the one seeking to pass is not Steward Dudley. Then have the ship searched thoroughly for Dudley. When found, bring him just outside that door, under guard, and send in word to me."

Again the lieutenant saluted, then hurried from the room. The whole thing had been, ordered so quickly that few of the lunchers guessed that anything out of the ordinary was taking place. Admiral Bentley took up knife and fork, turning his attention to a dish that had just been laid before him.

The marine lieutenant was soon back.

"I regret to report, admiral," he murmured, in a low voice, "that the sentry at the side gangway states that Steward Dudley went over the side and started off in a shore boat at least five minutes ago. He displayed a paper which he said was a telegram you had ordered sent in a rush."

"Great Scott!" uttered Jacob Farnum, laying down knife and fork in a tremble. "Then, by flight, the fellow confesses his identity. Admiral, we feel that we simply must get ashore without the loss of an instant. That rascal must be found."

"Certainly," agreed Admiral Bentley, rising. "Do not lose an instant."

Turning to the marine lieutenant, he added:

"My compliments to the officer of the deck, and ask him to see that these gentlemen have a shore boat placed at their disposal without any loss of time. Or, that they have any facilities they may wish for going to any part of the fleet. No thanks, gentlemen. I appreciate your need of haste and wish you every success."

The half-curious eyes of many persons followed these three guests, as the boatbuilder, the inventor and the young submarine captain hastily left the room, followed by the marine lieutenant.

As soon as the admiral's order had been transmitted to him, the lieutenant in charge of the deck ran to the side gangway, looking for a shore boat.

"Just our confounded luck when we're in a hurry," he muttered. "The only boat I can get is the one that just took Steward Dudley ashore. See, there it is over yonder, leaving the pier. It will be here within five minutes."

"Then I thank our lucky stars," cried Captain Jack, pointing, "for here comes our own good boat, and we can take it, instanter, if you'll permit it to come alongside, Lieutenant.

"Certainly," replied that officer.

Hal Hastings was at the deck wheel, in charge of the boat. He had just taken a party of sightseeing naval officers back to their ship, and was on his way to the "Pollard's" moorings. He caught sight of Benson's signals, and, slowing down the speed, ran neatly in alongside of the battleship's gangway platform.

In another twinkling the trio in haste were aboard their own boat.

"Better hurry below," advised Captain Jack. "Ship the ventilators and I'll get inside, close the manhole cover and handle the boat from the conning tower. Then, if Arthur Miller is watching us from the shore, he'll think we have officers aboard and are manoeuvering to show off the boat."

"Arthur Miller?" gasped Hal, in astonishment.

"Down below with you, Hastings," replied Jacob Farnum, pushing him gently. "When we've time to talk we'll tell you."

When, therefore, within sixty seconds, the "Pollard" left the flagship's side, she was equipped for diving. A casual observer would have believed she was about to do so with some inspecting party of naval officers.

As he sat in the conning tower Captain Jack steered the most direct course for the pier to which the supposed Miller had gone in the flagship's shore boat.

In order to do this, the young captain had to cut across the bow of a battleship that had just gotten under way. There was plenty of searoom for this manoeuvre, so Captain Jack did not hesitate.

Once past the bows of that battleship, however, the young submarine captain's heart gave a mighty bound.

For, just beyond, was another battleship, also under good headway. The "Pollard" was between the two. To go ahead meant a collision with the second battleship, while to reverse speed meant to back into the battleship just passed.

To turn and run between them in either direction might have been feasible, but the battleships, seeing the trouble of the little submarine, were sounding conflicting signals.

It was a situation that had to be met and solved in a second.

Jack Benson's heart seemed to stop beating; he felt ill, and a cold perspiration beaded his face all at once.

"Hold fast!" he roared down the stairway.

Then he did the only thing that could be done in a second.

Without waiting to shut off the gasoline power, he reached out for the conning tower controls. Like a flash, and with high nervous energy, he operated the mechanism that would fill the diving tanks in an instant.

In rushed the water, faster than it had ever done before. Down dived the "Pollard" like a lump of lead. To the startled onlookers on other ships she seemed almost to stand on her nose. Those on the decks of the two nearest battleships saw the "Pollard's" propellers uppermost of all, and revolving fast.

Then out of sight went the little submarine. Those below in her cabin and engine room had been pitched forward on their faces. Captain Jack fairly sprawled over the wheel.

Down went the little boat to a depth of some seventy feet. Then Captain Jack had the presence of mind to bring her to an even keel. A couple of hundred yards he ran under water. Then, shutting off the motive power, he called below to turn the compressed air slowly into the water compartments.

"For I want to rise mighty gently," he called down, in explanation. "Then, if we come up under some craft's keel, we won't hurt them or ourselves."

By this time the deck rails and rigging of many a naval vessel were crowded with officers and men, all anxious to know the fate of the plucky, or foolhardy, crew of the submarine.

A few moments passed. Then the conning tower emerged from the water. Next, the boat appeared, and rode at her proper amount of freeboard over the water.

What a deafening din of cheers filled the air. Men, everywhere, were waving uniform caps. Four of the big ships blew their whistles in harsh salute to this latest dash of Yankee bravery.

"Let us up on deck," cried David Pollard, excitedly. "We want to acknowledge some of that applause as modestly as possible."

The submarine's entire crew were speedily on the platform deck, while Captain Jack was busily explaining to his friends the necessity that had arisen for such a prompt, deep dive.

"Oh, but that was magnificently done, Jack!" cried the inventor, in a transport of enthusiasm. "Hear them yell! See them wave! The din of the whistles! It was the best thing we've done or could do in the way of compelling advertising!"

"Advertising be—will keep!" rasped Jacob Farnum. "But, for now, Captain Benson, hustle over to that pier as fast as the speed of the boat will allow. Advertising—with Grace Desmond's fortune and happiness at stake!"

So the young captain turned on speed, and steered on through the lanes of Naval vessels. Even on those craft from which his dashing, daring performance had not been witnessed the news was known, now, passed from ship to ship by the wig-wagging of signal flags.

All the way into the pier the "Pollard" was greeted with tempestuous volleys of applause, for there is nothing the American naval tar loves as he does sheer, wild grit.

"Advertising, is it?" demanded Mr. Farnum, in raging disgust. "We're getting plenty and to spare. No one within five miles of here can possibly be ignorant of the fact that the 'Pollard' is making a hustle to the dock!"



CHAPTER XXIII

WANTED, BADLY—ONE STEWARD!

As the "Pollard" slipped in at a vacant berth on one side of the pier, there was a rush of civilians, and of sailors and marines on brief shore leave.

Many of those who crowded down to look over the boat and her crew had witnessed Captain Jack Benson's difficult manoeuvre from the distance.

"Take the wheel, Hal," Jack murmured to his chum. "You and Eph had better stay aboard, and slip out into the stream before a swarm of folks rushes aboard."

Jacob Farnum leaped to the pier, the inventor following. Jack leaped to the string-piece last of all. Then Hal veered easily off, turning the boat's nose about and making out again.

"Aw!" went up a murmur from the crowd. "We wanted to see that craft."

"There she is," smiled Benson. "She won't go far away. She'll be on view, all right."

Jacob Farnum made straight for two marines who had been standing a little distance away. Neither had joined in the rush for the submarine.

"My men, to what ship do you belong?" he asked, quickly.

"Flagship 'Columbia,' sir," replied one of the men.

"Do you know the new steward, Dudley, of the 'Columbia'?"

"I think he came ashore lately, sir, in one of the shore boats."

"Then you saw him land?"

"Yes, sir."

"Which way did he go?"

"I think he headed straight for the railway station, sir. Had something in his hand that looked like a telegram."

"That's enough. Thank you," cried Farnum, as he hurried away.

"One moment," interrupted Jack. "How was Dudley dressed?"

"He had on the white duck uniform of a steward, and cap to match," replied the marine.

"Thank you," nodded Jack, then turned and ran after Farnum and Pollard.

The railway station was not far away. Over there the trio hastened. No train had left for half an hour, as they quickly learned, but one was due to leave in about fifteen minutes.

The operator assured the questioners that no one in a naval steward's dress had attempted to send a telegram.

"That was only a ruse, then," said Farnum. "The fellow went through here, and by here."

Jack hastily devoted himself to questioning other employes about the station.

"Why, yes, I saw a man who looked like that," replied the baggage-master.

"What did he do! What became of him?" asked Jack, swiftly.

"He went through here, and down that street," replied the baggage-master promptly.

"Is that all you saw, or know about him?"

"Yes."

Jack hastily reported to his two friends. Just then a policeman approached. Farnum learned that he was stationed here during the naval week. So the boatbuilder gave the officer a hasty description of the fugitive and asked that the steward, in case he returned to the station, and attempted to board a train, be arrested.

"I'll certainly nab him," promised the officer.

"Now, come along up that street, yonder," called Farnum to his companions. "Confound it, it's like hunting a needle in a hay-stack!"

"And we forgot to ask that officer to report to the police of the town," Jack reminded his employer, after they had gone a little way.

"Run back to the station, get the police station on the 'phone, and send word to the chief, will you?" begged Mr. Farnum.

Captain Jack returned on the run. He secured 'phone connection with the chief of police, and was able to give a graphic description of the steward who was wanted so badly.

"Of course," Jack hinted to the police chief, "the fellow we want so badly may have friends on shore, or some other way of changing his white uniform for other clothes."

"I won't overlook that," promised the chief of police. "And I'll send out a general alarm at once."

By the time that the submarine boy left the railway station again Farnum and Pollard were out of sight. Nevertheless, Benson hurried off up the same street they had taken.

He walked quickly for two blocks, then, coming to a larger street that crossed at right angles, he started to turn and go east. Just as he rounded the corner he thought he heard something strike the sidewalk, as though it had dropped from his pockets.

Wheeling quickly, the submarine boy returned to the corner. He was just in time to see something that took his thoughts like a flash from everything else.

Near the doorway of a small clothing store, two doors from the corner, a man had been looking stealthily out. Just as Jack turned the corner, out of sight, this man darted out, then slowed down to a deliberate walk in the direction of the railway station.

It was this man at whom Jack Benson found himself staring with all his eyesight. The man was dressed in a rather fastidious-looking summer weight frock coat suit. On his head rested an expensive straw hat of the latest sort. Over his eyes were light blue goggles. His hair was jet black.

"But that's a wig!" flashed Jack Benson, inwardly, almost at once. "That's Arthur Miller, just the same. He has the same walk as the steward!"

Though the other had had a brief chance for a glimpse at Benson just as he turned, the well dressed one did not increase his pace—that is, not until he heard Captain Jack's swift steps behind him.

"Oh, just a minute, if you please!" called Benson, in a voice that was ironically pleasant.

One look over his shoulder the other took, then broke into a run.

But Jack was younger, more agile, with better wind. Realizing this, the fugitive wheeled around the corner into an alley.

It was a short one, leading to some sort of a stable yard. Yet, though Jack Benson reached that yard in about record time, he gave a gasp of dismay. For the well-dressed fugitive was already out of sight, nor did noise from any quarter show the line of his further flight.

"Confound him, I'm not going to lose him as quickly and easily as that!" raged young Benson.

"Looking for your pop?" demanded a laughing, broad-faced woman, appearing at a back door that opened into the yard.

"Yes," declared Jack, pulsing. "Which way—"

"He went in there," nodded the woman, pointing to the nearly closed door of a small barn.

It might have been that the woman was purposely deceiving him, to aid the fugitive, but to that suspicion Jack had no time to give thought. He sprang into the barn to find it empty. He stood there, panting, for a moment, growing sick at heart with disappointment.

Then he heard a slight rustling on a haymow overhead, that was reached only by a ladder. Up that ladder rushed the submarine boy, springing into the hay.

As he did so, the well-dressed fugitive darted out from cover at another point in the mow, leaping straight down to the floor. After him sprang Jack Benson, and landed full upon him.

But the fugitive, by a supreme effort fear, rose, shaking off the boy, and started to dart out into the open.

"No, you don't—Mr. Arthur Miller!" roared the submarine boy, making a bound after him.

So much force did Jack put into that leap that, missing, he fell to the floor on his hands and knees. The moment thus gained for the fugitive was enough to give the latter time to dart out, slamming the door shut after him.

"This chase doesn't stop until it turns out my way!" muttered young Benson, doggedly. He had expected to find the door secured, but it was not. He yanked it open.

The fugitive was crossing the yard, just reaching the alley, when the same woman who had first spoken to Jack again opened her door. In one hand she held a mop. This she threw with such aim or luck that it passed between the running man's legs, tripping him.

And then Jack Benson piled upon him in earnest, first snatching up the mop and brandishing it over the fugitive's head.

"I don't want to hurt your cranium any," flared up Captain Jack. "But I'm going to do it if I have to."

"Confound you, woman!" roared the discomfited rascal.

"Arthur Miller's voice!" cried Jack, joyously. "Now, I know what we had only guessed so far! Now, see here, my fine fellow, you might as well give in, for I'm not going to quit until I land you—"

Miller had been lying quietly enough for a few moments. Now, however, he suddenly squirmed about, catching Jack by the ankles with both hands. Down went the submarine boy, flopped by a trick that he had little expected.

"We'll see whether you've got me!" clicked the scoundrel, leaping to his feet and making for the street.

"Thank you for your mop, ma'am," Jack called back, pantingly, as he gave chase. It annoyed him to have Miller prove so slippery, and he was filled with dread lest the defaulter should wind up by getting clean away.

Singing snatches of song, two sailors passed on the sidewalk, just at the head of the alleyway.

"Look what's coming," roared one, goodnaturedly, catching at his mate's hand. Thus, halted, they formed an effective barrier of brawn in the way of the first runner.

"Let me through! That wretch wants to kill me!" gasped Miller.

"We won't let him," replied one of the sailors, reassuringly.

"Hold him! The police want him!" implored Jack.

"Hold on, both of you," admonished one of the sailors, grabbing at Miller, while the other sailor placed himself so as to prevent the submarine boy from a possible attack. "One of you is lying. Which one is it?"

"Well," grinned Jack, reassured, "I'm not afraid to have you take us both before the nearest officer of the law. But I guess that man is afraid of such a test."

"Sounds like a straightforward answer," observed the other Jack Tar.

"This man," declared young Benson, "is Arthur Miller, wanted by the law for looting part of his ward's fortune and running away with the rest."

"It's a lie!" challenged Miller, hoarsely.

"Then ask him," proposed Jack, crisply, "why he's wearing a black wig, and under that has iron-gray hair that has been dyed brown? Why he shaved his beard oft?"

"Do you know the answer?" demanded the sailor who held Miller. The other sailor lifted Miller's new straw hat, snatching off the wig.

"Guilty, as charged," he grinned.

"Now, hold on to him, and march him along until you meet the first policeman," urged Jack Benson. "If you do that, I'm very certain that my employer, Jacob Farnum, builder of the 'Pollard' submarine boat, will remember you both handsomely."

"That sounds good," laughed one of the seamen.

"And here comes an officer now," cried Captain Jack, looking down the street as far as the next corner. "See how your prisoner trembles. Would an innocent man act so?"



CHAPTER XXIV

CONCLUSION

Within three minutes Arthur Miller stood before the desk at a station house. In less than twenty minutes Messrs. Farnum and Pollard had been found. They hurried to the police station, confirming the identification of Arthur Miller. He was locked up.

"It's a big thing you've helped to do, lads," Jacob Farnum assured the two strong young sailors. "You're entitled to some of the fruits of your work. How will this do?"

Whereupon he pressed upon each Jack Tar a couple of twenty-dollar bills.

"We've a couple of hours of shore leave left to us," grinned one of the sailors. "Is there anyone else you want caught, friend?"

By the time that Farnum, Pollard and Captain Jack had returned to the pier they found a midshipman awaiting them.

"Admiral Bentley's compliments, gentlemen," said the midshipman. "He begs you to go to him aboard the flagship. He has information of importance to communicate to you concerning the missing steward."

"By the way," laughed Mr. Farnum, contentedly, "that steward is no longer missing. We've just had the pleasure of seeing him placed under lock and key, where he'll keep until he's wanted."

"Will you come aboard the flagship in our launch?" asked the midshipman.

"Yes, thank you," replied Farnum. Thereupon Jack signaled to Hal Hastings, aboard the "Pollard," which lay to, not far off, to return to moorings.

"Catch your man?" yelled Hal, through a megaphone. His chum nodded in the affirmative.

"Toot! toot! toot!" sounded the "Pollard's" auto-whistle, in three long, triumphant blasts.

Arrived at the flagship, the midshipman conducted the visitors at once to the admiral's office.

"Did you catch the rascal?" asked that fine old officer.

"Yes, sir," nodded Farnum, and gave a quick, brief account of the capture.

"Captain Benson appear's to be your lucky star to-day," laughed the admiral. "By the way, captain, I must congratulate you most warmly on that daring, magic dive. Your boat is surely in a new class. But now to other interesting business. After you had gone it occurred to me to make a most thorough investigation into the whole matter of that steward.

"Your man Miller certainly displayed considerable originality in his attempt to hide from the law. He had been aboard for some time. He plainly realized that about the last place detectives would ever think to look for criminals would be among the crew of a battleship. We always require references for any man we enlist, and always look up the references. I have yet to satisfy myself as to how the fellow Miller managed to get around the matter of references. However, he got aboard, and was all but safe from pursuit. Moreover, this flagship is scheduled to sail for the European station as soon as the manoeuvres are over. Miller, I imagine, intended to desert when in European waters. By that time, as police pursuit would have cooled, he must have figured that he would be rather safe from the law.

"I have investigated his doings aboard this boat. Among other things I have learned that he deposited with our paymaster, taking a receipt for the same, an iron box—a small affair—which, the fellow said, contained papers regarding the history of his family. He had been years in getting the papers together, he explained to the paymaster, and wanted them put in a place of safe-keeping."