Close at hand there was a loose board in the fence. Through this Sam Truax
thrust his head, peering up and down the street. Not another soul was in
sight.
With a chuckle Truax stepped through the hole in the fence. Swiftly he
gathered up the young submarine captain, bearing him through the aperture
and dropping him on the ground behind the fence. At the same time he took
with him the small bag of sand.
"Knocked you out, but I don't believe you'll be unconscious long," mused
Truax, standing over his young victim, regarding him critically. "There
wasn't steam enough in the blow to hurt you for long. You're sturdy,
following the sea all the time, as you do."
With a thoughtful air Sam Truax drew a small bottle from his pocket,
sprinkling some of the contents over Jack's uniform coat. Immediately the
nauseating smell of liquor rose on the air.
"Now, if someone finds you before you come to, you'll look like a fellow
that has been drinking and fighting," muttered Truax under his breath. "If
you come to and get back to the yard without help, you'll walk unsteadily
and have that smell about your clothes. Usually, it needs only a breath of
suspicion to turn folks against a boy!"
[Illustration: Down Dropped the Bag.]
Down Dropped the Bag.
Pausing only long enough to learn that Jack's pulses were beating, and
that the submarine boy was breathing, Truax stole off into the night,
carrying the bag of sand under his overcoat. At one point he paused long
enough to empty the sand from the bag over a fence. The bag itself he
afterwards burned in the open fireplace in the room assigned to him at
Holt's Hotel.
For twenty minutes Jack Benson lay as he had been left. Then he began to
stir, and groan. Then he opened his eyes; after a while he managed to sit
up.
"Ugh!" he grunted. "What's the odor? Liquor! How does that happen? Oh, my
head!"
He got slowly to his feet, using the board fence as a means to help steady
himself. Then, though he found himself weak and tormented by the pain in
his head, Benson managed to feel his way along the fence until he came to
the opening made by the loose board. Holding himself here, he thrust his
head beyond.
Now, Hal and Eph, having waited for some time at the shore boat, before
going out on board the "Farnum," had at last made up their minds to go
back and look for their missing leader. They came along just at the moment
that the young captain's head appeared through the opening in the fence.
"There he is," muttered Hal, stopping short. "Gracious! He acts queerly. I
wonder if anything can have happened to him? Come along, Eph!"
The two raced across the street.
"Jack, old fellow! What on earth's the matter?" demanded Hal Hastings,
anxiously.
"I wish you could tell me," responded Jack Benson, speaking rather
thickly, for he was still somewhat dazed. "Oh, my head!"
"There has been some queer work here," muttered Hal in Eph's ear. "Don't
torment him with questions. Just help me to get him down to the yard."
While the two submarine boys were guiding their weak, dizzy comrade out to
the sidewalk a man came by with a swinging stride. Then he stopped short,
staring in amazement.
"Hullo, boys! What on earth has happened?"
It was Grant Andrews, foreman of the submarine work at the yard, and a
warm personal friend of Benson's.
"I don't believe the old chap feels like telling us just now," muttered
Hal, with a sour face.
"Whiskey!" muttered Andrews, almost under his breath. "What does it mean?
Benson never touched a drop of that vile stuff, did he?"
"He'd sooner drown himself," retorted Hal, with spirit.
"Of course he would," agreed Grant Andrews. "But what is the meaning of
all this?"
"Oh, there's some queer, hocus-pocus business on foot," muttered Hal,
bitterly. "But I don't believe Jack feels much like telling us anything
about it at present."
In truth, Jack didn't seem inclined to conversation. He was too sore and
dazed to feel like talking. He couldn't collect his ideas clearly. The
most that he actually knew was that the pain in his head was tormenting.
"I'll pick him right up in my arms and carry him," proposed Andrews. "I'll
take him to Mr. Farnum's office. Then I'll get a doctor. We don't want
much noise about this, or folks will be telling all sorts of yarns against
Jack Benson and his drinking habits, when the truth is he's about the
finest, steadiest young fellow alive!"
Just as Andrews was about to carry his purpose into action, however, an
automobile turned the nearest corner and came swiftly toward them. In
another instant it stopped alongside. It contained Mr. Farnum and his
chauffeur, besides three naval officers.
"What's wrong, Andrews?" called the yard's owner. "Why, that's Jack
Benson! What has happened to him?"
Hal and Eph stood supporting their comrade, almost holding him, in fact.
Jacob Farnum leaped from his automobile. Lieutenant Commander Mayhew
followed him.
"Liquor, eh?" exclaimed the naval officer, the odor reaching his nostrils.
"No such thing," retorted Farnum, turning upon the officer. "At least,
Jack Benson has been drinking no such stuff."
"It was only a guess," murmured Mr. Mayhew, apologetically. "You know your
young man better than I do, Mr. Farnum."
"There is liquor on his clothing," continued the shipbuilder. "It looks as
though someone had assaulted the lad, laid him out, and then sprinkled
him. It's a wasted trick, though. I know him too well to be fooled by any
such clumsy bit of nonsense."
"A stupid trick, indeed," agreed Lieutenant Commander Mayhew, but the
naval officer did not quite share the shipbuilder's confidence in the
submarine boy's innocence. Mr. Mayhew had known of too many cases of naval
apprentices ruined through weak indulgence in liquor. Indeed, he had even
known of rare instances in which cadets had been dismissed from the Naval
Academy for the same offense. The lieutenant commander's present doubt of
Jack Benson was likely to work to that young man's disadvantage later on.
Others of the party left the auto. Hal and Mr. Farnum got into the
tonneau, supporting Jack there between them. Thus they carried him to Mr.
Farnum's office at the yard, Grant Andrews then going in the car after a
doctor, while the others stretched Jack on the office sofa. The naval
officers returned to the "Hudson," at anchor in the little harbor below.
"The young man acts as though he had been struck on the head," was the
physician's verdict. "No bones of the skull are broken. The odor of liquor
is on his coat, but I can't seem to detect any on the breath."
"Of course you can't," commented Jacob Farnum, crisply. "Will Benson be
fit to sail in the morning?"
"I think so," nodded the doctor. "But there ought to be a nurse with him
to-night."
"Take my car, Andrews, and get a man nurse at once," directed Mr. Farnum.
"Doctor, can the young man be moved to his berth on the 'Farnum'?"
"Safely enough," nodded the medical man. They waited until the nurse
arrived, when Jack was put to bed on the newer submarine craft.
Jack slept through the night, moaning once in a while. Mr. Farnum and the
Dunhaven doctor were aboard early to look at him. The surgeon from the
"Hudson" also came over.
Under the effects of medicine Jack Benson was asleep when, at ten o'clock
that morning, the two submarine torpedo boats slipped their moorings,
following the "parent boat," the "Hudson," out of the harbor.
Ten minutes later the motion of the sea awoke the young skipper.