The Boy Inventors' Diving Torpedo Boat

“Hush a minute, Tom! What was that?”

Jack, who was driving the little red flyer, brought the car and Tom’s tongue to a simultaneous halt.

It was after dark and the two lads were returning from Camwell with the car loaded down with what they had purchased. In fact, both of them were perched on the summit of a pile of boxes and bundles, every available nook and cranny being filled with articles for which their lists had called.

The spot where the car was brought to such an abrupt halt by Jack was a lonely one. On one side of the road, thick brush with tall, melancholy trees beyond, grew close down to the right of way. On the other, the outlines of a fair-sized barn bulked up black against the surrounding darkness, for the night was starless.

The two lads had set out from Camwell an hour before. Purchasing such a lengthy list of articles as their orders called for had proved no light task. To their annoyance, too, the magnitude of their purchases and the way in which they hastened from store to store, had caused quite a stir in Camwell, a small manufacturing place mainly devoted to the production of steel and similar industries.

In fact, at six o’clock, the hour at which the factories suspended the work of the “day shift,” a small crowd had followed them from one place of business to another. The bolder ones in the crowd had even made inquiries as to their business. The boys had, of course, answered evasively, and flattered themselves that no one in Camwell was aware of their identity. They were careful in the extreme to avoid any reference to the object of their purchasing expedition—or foraging raid, it might almost be called. But, nevertheless, both had been glad when their car chugged merrily out of Camwell, leaving behind a residue of rumor concerning the descent on that uneventful town of “the millionaire kids.”

As the car came to a halt at the roadside, both boys listened intently. At first there was no repetition of the sound that had caused Jack’s exclamation.

Then suddenly it came again, a weird sort of moan.

“Sounds like some one in pain,” ventured Tom.

“It does,” agreed Jack, “perhaps some one has been struck by a car; or——”

He broke off abruptly as a figure sprang from the dark bushes at the side of the road opposite the barn.

“Hullo, who’s that?” hailed Jack.

“Hullo, yourself,” came back a rough voice in reply; “who are you?”

“Two boys in a big hurry. What’s the trouble here?”

“Yes, we thought we heard a moan,” came from Tom.

“I’m glad you’ve stopped. I’ve got my friend back in the brush there. We was walking from Camwell to Boston when a car struck him. I guess he’s badly hurt.”

The man’s voice appeared to hold genuine regret.

“What’s the trouble with him?” asked Jack.

“Dunno. I ain’t got enough education fer that, boss. He jes’ lies there an’ groans.”

“That’s what we heard,” murmured Jack.

“That’s what you heard,” repeated the man in the road.

Then he went on in an odd, hesitating voice, as if hardly daring to ask a favor from the two well-dressed young automobilists.

“Say, guv’ners both, would you mind takin’ a look at him? Then maybe if he’s badly cracked you could git a doctor with that benzine buggy of yourn.”

“I don’t know much about surgery,” confessed Jack; “but we’ll help you out if we can. At any rate, we can carry him to the machine and take him to the doctor’s.”

“That’s the stuff, mate. You’re a good feller, I kin see that.”

Somehow the whining, fawning tones of the man’s voice annoyed Jack; but nevertheless he was not the kind of lad to pass by any one who was injured or in distress. So he asked Tom to detach one of the oil lamps and prepared to make an investigation.

“Where is he?” asked Jack when Tom had the lantern off and ready for use. It cast a good, strong light, and as its rays fell on the countenance and general outline of the man who had summoned their aid, Jack was impressed still more unfavorably than he had been by the fellow’s voice.

He was a short, thick-set, roughly dressed individual, with a crop of unshaven beard on his chin that stood out like the bristles on an old toothbrush. On his head was a battered cap. His eyes were small and blinky, and as evasive as a rat’s.

“Poor Jim is right back in there, guv’ner,” he declared in answer to Jack’s question, motioning toward the bushes. “I carried him there after he got hit,” he explained.

“Why didn’t you leave him on the roadside?” asked Jack.

Somehow, for some reason he could not explain, he was suspicious of this man with the bristly chin and the blinky, red-rimmed eyes.

But the fellow answered glibly enough, momentarily disarming the boy’s suspicions.

“You see, poor Jim’s head was cut. I thought there might be water back there, so’s I could ‘a’ bathed it a bit,” he declared.

“Right this way, guv’ner,” he went on, pushing his way into the brush. “Hark! That’s poor Jim now!”

As if his voice was meant to guide them, the injured man at this instant gave a heartrending groan. If Jack had felt any hesitation in following the rough-looking customer who had apprised them of the accident, all doubt left him now. The man who uttered that moan must be badly hurt.

The blinky-eyed man reached a small opening in the brush. Tom flashed the rays of the detached oil lantern hither and yon against the background of closely growing bushes and scrub timber.

“I don’t seem to see any one,” he was beginning, when Jack detected a sudden footstep behind him.

“There he is, guv’ner, poor old Jim, right there,” urged Blinky, pointing in the direction opposite that from which Jack had heard the footfall.

Tom pressed forward; but Jack, prompted by some impulse he could not explain, disregarded Blinky’s instructions and turned about. It was well for him that he did so. As he turned his head a dark figure bounded toward him from behind.

Jack felt a club, or some other weapon, “swis-s-s-s-s-h!” by his ear.

A fierce growl broke from the man as his blow missed. Before he could poise the implement for another, Jack had closed with him.

At the same instant, from beyond, came another voice. Even in Jack’s predicament he realized that this new tone held something familiar. But he had little time to think of that.

“Blinky! Duggan! Have you got ’em?” hailed the new voice.

“Not yet, but in a jiffy,” came from Jack’s assailant as he wrested himself free of Jack’s grip and, with a roar like a wild bull, intended to frighten the lad, launched his bulky form full at the boy.