A CORNERED SUBMARINE CAPTAIN
"You--get--out!"
Quick as thought Jack Benson raised his left foot, planting it, as
vigorously as his sitting position allowed, against the ribs of Fred
Radwin.
That worthy, one foot on the sill, and bent in the act of entering fell
back, going in a heap to the sidewalk.
Benson fairly hurled himself through the open door in his need of
reaching the sidewalk in time.
He stood, now waiting for a second or so.
Then Fred Radwin jumped up, prepared to grapple with this young foeman.
But Jack was ready for that. He had ready a handy sailor jab--a
short-arm blow with the fist that sent Radwin once more to the sidewalk.
Then, as scientific boxing rules were not called for in an encounter of
this kind, Jack followed up his advantages with two severe kicks.
Down from the seat leaped the driver, heavy whip in hand.
"Oh, you're in this, are you?" panted Jack, seeing that the driver was
headed straight for him.
Down low ducked the submarine boy; then came up straight at close
quarters. Benson's sudden grapple deprived the driver of a chance to
use the butt of his whip in the manner the fellow had intended.
Yet the driver was a powerful fellow, his strength making him about a
match for the greater agility of the bronzed young skipper.
Jack managed to land a blow or two against his big assailant, though
without doing much harm.
Yet the submarine boy was undismayed and confident, until, out of the
corner of one eye, he saw Radwin rising and advancing cautiously to
close in.
Young Benson's opportunity came at just that instant. Smack! He
landed his right fist in the driver's face, almost dazing him. With
the left fist Jack struck himself free.
But Radwin was just upon him as the boy turned.
"No, you don't!" mocked Captain Jack, ducking down, kangaroo-fashion.
"Day-day!"
That low crouch and the following spring had carried the submarine boy
just under Fred Radwin's outstretched right arm.
And now, Jack Benson, being past both of his assailants, took refuge in
discreet flight, in fact, he ran down the street with about every pound
of human steam turned on.
"Come on!" snarled Radwin, setting the sprinting pace. "We've got to
catch that rascally boy, and mighty quick, too!"
This block or two of the street appeared to be deserted. There was no
telling, however, how soon the submarine boy might run into two or
three real men who would take his side in any scrimmage that was due.
Though Radwin had the first start after Jack, and was running well, the
driver, a long-legged fellow with splendid "wind" soon passed his leader.
Jack realized that he was in danger of being caught, and tried to put on
a greater burst of speed. Yet the driver came closer and closer.
Whizz-zz!
The driver had aimed his heavy whip, lance-fashion, and butt-end first,
and launched it after the fugitive.
Had not Jack turned the instant before, to glance backward, the whip
would have struck him in the back of the head. But Benson saw it coming,
and threw himself forward, his head went down.
The whip, therefore, flew just over his head, striking the sidewalk
ahead of him.
At that moment Jack Benson tripped. He did not mean to do it. He
simply fell and landed on his knees, his head low.
On came the sprinting driver. It was too late to stop or turn. Over
Jack Benson plunged the fellow, then landed in a heap on the sidewalk.
Jack was up like a flash. He heard a yell from the driver, but Benson's
gaze was upon the whip.
At a bound the submarine boy possessed himself of this weapon. He got
it, just in time, too, to wheel and face Fred Radwin, threatening that
fellow with the heavy butt-end of the driver's recent weapon.
"Get up behind the boy, you fool!" hissed Radwin.
"Sure, I can't," moaned the fellow, rubbing himself, real anguish
sounding in his voice. "My neck's broke!"
"Come on yourself, Radwin!" mocked Jack, backing against the wall of a
house so that he could face either assailant at need.
"Drop that whip, and I will!" hissed Fred Radwin, stealthily manoeuvering
about the boy, yet held back by a wholesome awe of that butt-end of the
whip.
"No; I like this whip too well," chuckled young Benson. "You can't
have it unless you take it from me. Want to try?"
"Come on, and get up, you dolt!" growled Radwin to the driver. "Do you
think we have all night to settle with this boy?"
"I can't get up, I tell you. I'm no good," moaned the driver. "I don't
know what I did to myself when I went down so hard."
"Hurry up!" insisted Radwin. "A crowd may come along at any moment."
"Let 'em," moaned the driver. "I can't stop it. I'll apologize."
At that very moment there came the sound of a shout further down the
street. Other voices answered.
"There, you dolt!" cried Radwin, angrily. "Now, you've wasted our last
chance. Here comes a mob!"
Backing off, Radwin grabbed up his useless comrade, forcing the driver
to his feet.
Seeing his enemy so occupied, Jack Benson edged off, holding the whip
so that he could use it.
From down the street came the sound of flying feet. Then, just as
suddenly the speed lessened.
"I'll wait until I get help, and I'll grab this pair," muttered Captain
Jack. "The police chief will be delighted at having a good, close look
at Fred Radwin!"
At that moment loud yells and coarse cries broke from the eight or ten
young men down the street. Then fist-blows sounded.
"Mine's a Chinaman's luck," grunted Jack Benson, disgustedly. "Only a
gang of drunken hoodlums down there. They'd stand in with anything
that is against the police. No use depending on such human cattle."
Jack, in fact, grasped the significance of the new riot a little before
Fred Radwin did. The submarine boy, therefore, wheeled and ran swiftly
toward the fighting hoodlums, though wholly intent on getting past
them.
Radwin, believing that the young skipper was racing for help, dragged
his driver-companion roughly, swiftly along, finally pushing him inside
the hack. Then Radwin leaped to the box, gathered up the reins, and
was away like a flash.
The young submarine skipper, from what he knew of hoodlum street crowds,
hurried by on the other side. Two blocks further along Benson
encountered a tardy policeman. Knowing that it was now too late to hope
to catch Fred Radwin, Jack contented himself with inquiring the way back
to the Somerset House, where he arrived, after a long walk, still
carrying the whip as his trophy of the late encounter.
"You'll have to telephone the hospital, after all, I'm afraid," muttered
the young skipper, when he met Mr. Farnum and the others in the lobby.
"What happened?" demanded Farnum, eyeing the whip curiously.
"As soon as I can get through with telephoning the chief of police, I'll
come back and tell you."
Chief Ward responded in person. He examined the whip, then declared:
"I know the fellow this whip belongs to--Claridy, 'the fox,' as his
admiring friends call him. He's a bad character. See; here is a fox's
head engraved on the whip-stock. I'll do my best to find Claridy, and,
in that way, I may find the fellow, Radwin. But you were wise, Benson,
in not trying to enlist help from that hoodlum gang. Our hoodlums are
as bad and lawless as are to be found anywhere in the United States."