The next instant they shot below, going down at so deep an angle that it made many of the middies reach for new footing.
"The gauge registers sixty feet below," announced Jack Benson, in a tone to be heard above the murmurs of some of the young men. "Now—!"
In another moment, by the quick flooding of some of the compartments astern, the young skipper brought the boat on an even keel.
"Someone ask the men up in the tower how far they can see through the water," proposed Jack.
"Can't see a blessed thing," came down the answer. "Except for the binnacle light over the compass we might think ourselves at the bottom of a sea of ink."
"That's one of the peculiarities of submarine boating," explained Jack Benson. "A good many land-lubbers imagine we use powerful searchlights to find our way under water, but a light powerful enough to show us twenty feet ahead of our own bow hasn't yet been made by man. So, when you dive beneath the surface, you simply have to go it blind. As a result, you take your bearings and guess your distance before you dive. That guess is all you have to go upon in judging where to come up to strike at an enemy's hull. But that guess can be made with splendid accuracy when you understand your work well enough."
After having finished the prescribed distance under water, Captain Jack turned on the compressed air to expel the water gradually from the compartments. So easily was this done that there was no real sensation of rising. Suddenly the conning tower appeared above water. There was a quick rush upward for the platform deck. None of these middies ever having been below before, in a submarine boat, several of them had been on tenterhooks of anxiety. Not one of them, however, by word or gesture had betrayed the fact.
Two minutes later the "Pollard" emerged from the water, several hundred yards away. Those on the deck of the "Farnum" had a splendid view of the other boat's emerging performance.
Now, other sections of cadets were transferred from the gunboat to the two submarines, and the trips below surface proceeded.
The last section of all to go aboard the "Farnum" had just finished their first experience under water, when the gunboat signaled:
"'Farnum,' take a half-hour's run below the surface, then come back above surface."
"That will be a longer experience than I have yet had for one time," remarked Mr. Trahern, with a smile, as he interpreted the signal to Captain Jack.
"We have run for hours below, with safety, sir," Benson answered.
Two minutes later the section of middies that had just come up from a brief trip under water were below again.
"I think you'll find, gentlemen, that it will seem like the longest half hour you can remember," announced young Captain Benson. "My friends and I have spent many long hours under the surface, though we have never yet gotten over the terrible monotony of such a trip. Twenty-four hours under, I think, would make a lunatic of the bravest or the most stolid man."
As they ran along, in the silence and the darkness, the young midshipmen began to look curiously at one another.
"Did you misunderstand the time, Mr. Benson?" asked one of the midshipmen, at last. "It's surely more than a half hour since we made the last dive."
"Almost twelve minutes," Jack corrected, quietly.
"Whew-ew-ew!" whistled several of the naval cadets. Not one of them was a coward, yet, in their experience, the thought that they had put in barely more than a third of the ordered time under water made some of them fidget.
"Say, this gives us some idea how long a whole hour would be," remarked one of the midshipmen.
"Stop that man from talking," jibed another severely.
Jack had most of the time clear for instruction, after that, as few of the young men cared to talk. But at last another ventured to inquire:
"How much of the time is gone?"
"Nineteen minutes," Benson answered, after a look at his watch.
"O-o-o-oh!" The response came in a chorus that sounded like a protest.
Then passed what seemed like an eternity of seconds. All the time the electric motors ran, almost noiselessly. The slight tremor imparted to the craft by the propeller shafts seemed like an ominous rumbling. Jack's voice had ceased. No one felt like talking. From time to time Skipper Jack glanced at his watch; his face, expressionless, gave no clue to the eagerly watching naval cadets. But at last young Benson's hand reached toward the compressed air apparatus.
"A-a-a-ah!" It was meant for a cheer, but it sounded more like a groan.
Up above, in the tower, the midshipman bending over the compass, suddenly realized that daylight was filtering down through the water. In another instant the midshipman glanced up to find the tower above the surface.
Yet Cadet Midshipman Osgoodby gasped as though he had intended to scream instead. For, right ahead, her great bows looming up in the path of the little submarine, was a big liner, coming straight toward them!
CHAPTER XXI
"NO MORE MEN GO OVERBOARD!"
In a time like this a man's coolness and nerve receive the utmost test.
Had Jack Benson been there at the wheel he would have swung both hands to the diving controls and shot below the surface.
But Cadet Osgoodby, now at the wheel, did not sufficiently understand the use of the diving controls.
Whatever was to be done had to be accomplished in the fewest seconds, or the little submarine craft was bound to be ground to scrap iron under the great bows of the steamship.
Both of the other midshipmen saw the danger in the same instant as did
Midshipman Osgoodby.
Yet neither of these young men knew better what to do than did the third. All they could do was to stiffen and to stand loyally beside their comrade in charge.
Perhaps for not half a second did Osgoodby hesitate.
Then he took the only chance that he saw; he threw the wheel over to port, jamming it there.
In strained, awful silence, the three waited. Never had seconds seemed so long before—not even under water.
On came the great liner, and now her bow was right atop of the bow at the forward end of the submarine's platform deck. There was just an instant to spare, but the "Farnum" shot past the oncoming, hostile-looking bows. In another moment the little craft, now more than awash, was out of harm's way.
None the less, the alarm had been passed on to those aboard the liner. That great craft, bound up from South Africa, carried diamonds and gold coin, in the purser's vaults in the hold, amounting in value to more than four million dollars.
All the way from Cape Town the passengers had been chaffing each other about the chance of meeting modern, up-to-date pirates.
"The only up-to-date pirate would be one that came in a submarine boat," Captain Coster had laughingly told his passengers. "A submarine boat could get away again, without leaving a trail. In these days no other kind of pirate craft could long escape."
So the passengers had joked each other about the submarine boat that would meet them, and rob the liner of its precious cargo. Bets had laughingly been offered that the submarine pirate would be encountered off the coast of the United States.
Now, when the little craft shot up in the path of the big one, the bow watch of the "Greytown," and a dozen passengers standing up in the bow, saw the little boat at the same time.
"There's the pirate!" shouted one nervous woman, leaping up and down, and pointing. "Oh, Captain! Captain! Save us from all being murdered!"
Two or three young children, who also saw the floating, queerly-shaped little craft dancing on the waves just off the steamship's starboard bow, began to scream in terror.
Even several of the men, who should have known better, experienced a shock of fright for a moment.
The "submarine pirate" that had been joked about for so many days, now seemed a thing of reality.
Down amidships, on the main deck, a pretty girl had sat, balanced on the rail, her stalwart brother standing by to hold her securely.
Yet, in the excitement that followed, the girl uttered a shriek and tottered. Her brother's hold was loosened for the instant, in his own bewilderment. Before he could recover, the girl had plunged down toward the water. With a frantic yell, the brother leaned too far out to seize her. He, too, plunged over the rail.
How either escaped being drawn in toward the great hull was marvelous.
But now both appeared in the foam astern, bobbing on the water, yet far apart.
The "Farnum" was near by. Midshipman Osgoodby threw the helm over once more, then started in to get closer to them.
At the same time he passed the word below. Captain Jack Benson was the first to reach the tower.
In an instant the young submarine skipper threw the power off.
"We can't go closer without the danger of running 'em down," quivered the submarine boy.
The instant he had the power off Captain Jack threw the manhole cover of the tower open. As he bounded out on the platform deck several of the midshipmen followed, with Ensign Trahern and others.
No sooner had his feet touched the platform deck than Jack threw down his cap. His blouse followed, almost in the same instant. Racing to the rail, the submarine boy calculated his distance, then sprang overboard, striking out desperately.
Word had been carried to the "Greytown's" bridge, and the big craft was slowing up as rapidly as her headway permitted, while an officer and several men rushed to lower and man a boat. Yet the boat, when it struck the water, was something more than a quarter of a mile away from the spot where the young woman and her brother had fallen overboard.
"Why don't some of the champion swimmers of the class go overboard to
Mr. Benson's assistance?" rang Ensign Trahern's voice, sternly.
Apparently that was all the middies were waiting for.
Instantly uniform caps littered the platform deck. Uniform blouses followed. A group of white-shirted middies raced for the rail.
Splash! splash! splash! The water shot up in tiny columns of spray with so many young midshipmen diving overboard.
Even Ensign Trahern was startled by the promptness with which his question had been met.
"No more men go overboard!" bellowed Mr. Trahern.
Splash! splash! The order had come too late to stop these last divers. A solitary midshipman, hatless and with his blouse half off, stood beside the ensign, both of them knee-deep in discarded parts of uniform, while Eph peered out from the conning tower.
"That was kind of a mean trick, sir, to play on me! I'm the only one that didn't get-over," grinned the last midshipman, sheepishly.
It was a gross violation of discipline, so to address an officer. But
Ensign Trahern merely smiled, for this once, as he replied:
"Never mind, Mr. Satterlee. You'll be needed to stand by with me and help some of these venturesome ones aboard again."
Jack's start had been a good one, and he was a lusty swimmer.
He headed straight for the young woman, whose cries reached him across the water.
She could not swim, but her skirts, spreading, were buoying her up briefly. When these skirts became thoroughly soaked they would fall, enclosing her in an envelope of considerable weight.
The brother, on the other hand, could swim a little. He had begun to do so, instinctively, striking out for his sister.
Yet, before he could reach her, his buoyancy gave out, his limbs cramping.
With a despairing cry he sank.
"Tread water! Tread! Keep up until I reach you!" called Jack, clearly, as he fought on to reach the young woman.
Her skirts were beginning to fill and drop. She might have trod water, but she did not understand how it was done.
"Help me! I'm sinking!" she screamed, as she threw up her hands. Then some of the water washed into her mouth.
"No; you're not sinking, either!" shouted Jack, encouragingly, as he redoubled his efforts at water sprinting.
He darted in, catching at her with one hand just as the girl's head sank under a wave.
In a jiffy Jack Benson had a secure hand-hold.
"Save me—oh, save me!" choked the girl, in terror, as her head came once more above.
"Keep cool; do just as I tell you, and—No! Don't grab me like that, or you may drown us both!" remonstrated the submarine boy.
But the girl acted as though possessed solely by the demon of terror. She succeeded in wrapping both arms in a frenzy about the submarine boy.
"You must leave my arms free," urged Jack, desperately, "or we shall go down together."
He struggled, but her strength, in her despair, was something past belief. Jack trod water while trying to make her understand.
It was of no use. She clung the tighter. There was but one course that would save time—to strike her a blow on the forehead that would render her senseless. But Jack could not bring himself to strike a woman.
As she felt herself going down the girl only wrapped her arms the more tightly about her would-be rescuer.
Then the water closed over them. Jack felt himself slipping down and down into the watery grave that awaited them.
No strength can combat the power of frenzy. Though Jack Benson struggled, he realized that it was a losing battle. The girl's arms seemed locked in a deathless grip around his own.
By the time that the first of the midshipmen reached the spot there was no trace either of Jack Benson or of the girl whom he had sought to save.
CHAPTER XXII
JACK SIGNALS THE "SAWBONES"
Though he realized the deadly peril of the situation, Jack Benson, when he found himself in that frantic embrace, slipping below the waters, did not lose his head.
"She'll weaken before I do," was his first thought.
He had taken in no water. A strong, expert swimmer, the submarine boy could hold in his breath for some time to come.
"If I could only free one hand, now!" thought the submarine boy.
He tried, but some instinct in the girl made her resist his efforts.
Even had he wanted to, the chivalrous youngster could not now have struck the blow that, depriving the young woman of her senses, would give him a chance to control her. His arms were pinned tightly.
Yet were they held so securely that he could not free one?
Jack Benson knew that he must, indeed, think fast, now, if he was to save their lives.
He tried one of the tricks of wrestlers for freeing his right arm.
A shudder passed through the frame of the girl; she clung more convulsively still.
Then Jack tried another little dodge. This time he nearly freed his left arm. Summoning all his strength, he gave another tug.
His left arm was free!
Working mightily with it, now, Jack Benson fought his way to the surface.
There was no need to give much heed to his unknown companion. She was holding to him in a way that insured her rising to the surface with him.
"Ugh! Whew!" What a mighty breath it was that the young submarine captain took into his lungs as his head shot into air.
"Oh, you—Benson!" shot from a middy's mouth.
The cry led half a dozen of the young men toward the all but exhausted rescuer. They came with long, lusty strokes that brought them to Benson, quickly, while he trod water and tried to raise the face of the girl above the surface.
The girl's eyes were closed, now, her cheeks pallid and waxen. Twice her face dropped beneath the surface, but Jack fought to bring her lips up into the air.
Then strong hands seized them both.
"Untwine the young lady's arms, if you can," begged the submarine boy.
Two of the cadets succeeded in doing this. More midshipmen were about them, now, yet not one among them could have boasted of being a better swimmer than was Jack Benson himself.
But now the young skipper of the "Farnum" was plainly exhausted.
Freed of the need of more immediate work, Jack, as soon as he was free, rolled over on his back, floating.
In the meantime, four other midshipmen swam close to where the girl's athletic brother had been seen to go down. He came up, at last, more than half gone, but the middies pounced upon him—and then he was safe.
Hal was at the wheel, now, with Williamson and the naval machinist below in the engine room. That gave Eph Somers a chance to spring out on the platform deck with Ensign Trahern and the sole remaining midshipman.
"I'd better run along, now, to pick 'em up, sir, hadn't I?" called Eph
Somers to the naval officer.
"By all means, Mr. Somers."
The steamship's boat, too, pulled by a strong, well-trained crew, was now getting close to the scene. So it came about that the liner's lifeboat picked up Jack, the girl and her brother. The middies, disdaining any such outside interference, calmly turned and made for the "Farnum."
The girl proved to be unconscious, the brother more than half-dazed.
"Bring them aboard," directed Mr. Trahern, briefly.
"Now, gentlemen, you've a chance to apply what you may know about first aid to the drowning," suggested Ensign Trahern, tersely.
Under that vigorous treatment Walter Carruthers, as the young man afterwards declared himself to be, was quickly brought around. The middies had much harder work in reviving the girl. Her brother sat by watching the work.
"Elsie isn't—isn't dead, is she?" asked the brother, anxiously.
"Oh, no," replied one of the midshipmen, suspending his rescue work for an instant. "In fact, if there were women here to do the work—loosening her corsets, and all that sort of thing, you know—Miss Carruthers would be sitting up in short time."
At last, the girl was made to open her eyes. She swallowed a little coffee, too.
The "Greytown," in the meantime, had manoeuvered as close as was safe for such a big craft to come. The ship's doctor put off in a lifeboat, and soon declared his patient fit to be removed to the liner.
While all this was going on, Jack had slipped quietly below. He took a brisk rub-down, donned dry clothing, and speedily appeared on deck, looking as though nothing had happened.
"Drink some of this," ordered Eph, holding a pint cup of coffee toward the young skipper. Jack finished it all in a few gulps. Then, as his blood warmed, he began to smile over his late adventure.
Supported on the arm of the ship's doctor, Elsie Carruthers turned to ask:
"Where is the midshipman who first reached me—the—the one I so nearly drowned. I—I want to thank him, oh, so heartily, and to apologize."
"Here he is," cried Ensign Trahern, shoving Benson forward.
"But I'm not a midshipman, nor anything else in the Navy—no such luck," laughed Jack.
"If you're not in the Navy, you ought to be, you splendid fellow." cried the girl, weakly, holding out her hand in sheer gratitude. "And, oh, I was such a coward, and so unreasoning!"
"I guess anyone would be unreasoning if drowning and unable to swim," chuckled Jack Benson. "I know I would be."
"That's good of you," cried the girl, gratefully. "Awfully good, but I'm not deceived. I realize, now, what a criminal ninny I was to, act in a way that came so near to drowning both of us."
Then the young woman gracefully thanked all who had had any share in her rescue, and that of her brother. It took a lot of thanking, which everyone of the late heroes tried to dodge.
Then the visitors were taken off, and the midshipmen bundled below until dry clothing could be had for them.
The commanding officer of the "Hudson," having learned that something had happened was now heading the gunboat toward the "Farnum." In another half hour the naval fleet was together again, while the "Greytown" was rapidly vanishing along the northern horizon.
On receiving a report by megaphone, Lieutenant Commander Mayhew's first act was to order all of the drenched, and now chilled, midshipmen aboard the parent vessel. Here they were treated with rub-downs, dry clothing and hot black coffee. Even Jack Benson had been ordered on board, and he had to pass before Doctor McCrea at that.
"Oh, I'm all right," asserted Benson, who was the first to go before the doctor, while the middies were receiving their rub-downs. "You can't kill a salt-water dog with a dash of brine."
"Yes, you're in good enough shape," agreed the Navy medical officer.
Lieutenant Commander Mayhew now began to ask questions about the late occurrence.
When he had finished, Jack broke in with:
"By the way, sir, you were going to question your prisoner, Sam Truax, to see what you could learn about his reasons for acting the way he did on the 'Farnum.'"
"I didn't forget, either," replied the gunboat's commander. "I had him before me last night, and again this morning."
"And he said—" began Jack, eagerly.
"Said he hadn't the least notion what I was driving at," returned Mr.
Mayhew, compressing his jaws. "And that was about every blessed word
I could get out of him."
Jack looked, thoughtfully, in the direction of Doctor McCrea for a few moments, before he broke forth:
"Doctor, if I had anything like your chance, I'll wager I'd have Sam
Truax talking in short order."
"How?" inquired Doctor McCrea, looking up with interest.
"Why, I'd—" Jack hesitated, glancing in the direction of the gunboat's commanding officer.
"I—I guess I had better go and see how the midshipmen are coming on," muttered Mr. Mayhew, rising.
Yet there was a twinkle in his eye as he turned away.
For some minutes Jack Benson talked with Doctor McCrea. That naval medical officer listened at least with interest. Finally, he began to grin. Then he roared, slapping his knees.
"Mr. Benson, there's one thing about you. You certainly are ingenious!"
"Will you do what I have suggested?" pressed the young submarine skipper.
"Why, I—er—er—"
Doctor McCrea hesitated, then again laughed, as he replied:
"Mr. Benson, all I can say is that I—I—well, I'll have to think it over. I'm afraid that I—but I'll think it over."
CHAPTER XXIII
WHAT BEFELL THE MAN IN THE BRIG
The "brig" is a place aboard a warship, as aboard some merchant vessels, that is set apart for prison purposes.
Here drunken or mutinous members of the crew are confined. Here, too, on board a vessel of war, any enlisted man is likely to be stowed away when under severe discipline for any reason.
It is a room fitted up like a prison cell, and having a barred door of iron.
On a war vessel a marine sentry, with bayonet fixed to his gun, is usually stationed before the door, both to watch the prisoners and to prevent men of the crew from talking with those under arrest.
It was in the brig, between decks on the "Hudson," that Sam Truax was spending his time, the only prisoner then in confinement.
Truax, since his arrest in the submarine's engine room, had had plenty of time to think matters over.
He had been doing a good deal of thinking, too, yet thought had by no means improved the fellow's temper.
On a stool in the corner sat Truax, his scowling, sullen face turned towards the barred door when the marine outside, taking a turn, peered in.
"Good heavens, man! What ails you?" demanded the marine.
"I'm all right," growled the prisoner.
"I'll be hanged if you look it!" was the marine's emphatic answer.
"What are you talking about?" demanded the prisoner, angrily.
"Man alive, I wish you could see your face!"
"I could if this place were fitted with a mirror," sneered Sam Truax.
The marine, after looking at the prisoner, and shaking his head, continued his pacing to and fro past the door.
Two or three minutes later a sailor, halting at the door, looked at
Sam, then wheeled about to the marine.
"Say, what ails that man? What's the matter with his face?" demanded the seaman in a low tone, yet one loud enough to be overheard by the prisoner within.
"I don't know," said the marine. "Looks fearful, doesn't he?"
"He ought to have the doctor—that's what," muttered the seaman, then passed on.
"Now, what are those idiots jabbering about?" Sam gruffly asked himself.
He shifted uneasily, feeling his face flush.
Five minutes later a sailor wearing on one sleeve the Red Cross of the hospital squad, passed by.
"Say," said the marine, "I wish you'd look at the feller in the brig."
"What ails him?" demanded the man of the hospital squad.
"Blessed if I know. But just look at his face—his eyes!"
The hospital man showed his face at the grating, looking at Sam Truax keenly for a moment.
"Wow!" he ejaculated.
"Looks fearful bad, don't he?" demanded the marine, also peering in.
"What do you think it is?"
"I ain't quite sure," answered the hospital man. "But one thing I do know. The sawbones officer has got to have a look at this chap."
Sam Truax sprang to his feet, pacing up and down within the confines of the brig.
"What are they all talking about?" he asked himself, in a buzz of excitement. "Five minutes ago I felt well enough. Now—well, I certainly do feel queerish."
Barely three minutes more passed when Doctor McCrea hurried below, bustling along to the door of the brig. He, in turn, shot a keen look at Truax through the bars, then commanded:
"Sentry, unlock the door! Let me in there!"
In another moment Doctor McCrea was feeling the prisoner's pulse.
"How long have you been feeling out of sorts?" asked the medical man, briefly.
"N-n-not long," answered Truax, quite truthfully.
"Take this thermometer under your tongue!"
Sam Truax meekly submitted, then sat, perfectly still, while Doctor McCrea paced the brig for two full minutes. Then the "sawbones" took the thermometer from between Truax's lips and inspected it keenly.
"Hospital man!" rapped out Doctor McCrea, sharply.
"Aye, aye, sir!" reported the man with the Red Cross on his sleeve, reappearing before the door.
"Have the stretcher brought here at once!"
"Aye, aye, sir!"
Still holding the clinical thermometer in one hand, Doctor McCrea stood keenly regarding the prisoner.
"What on earth is the matter with me?" demanded Truax, speaking somewhat nervously.
"Oh, you'll be all right—soon," replied Doctor McCrea, in what was too plainly a voice of false hope.
The stretcher was brought.
"Get on to this, Truax. Don't think of attempting to walk," ordered the surgeon. "Sentry, I am taking your prisoner to the sick bay. I'll make proper report of my action to the lieutenant commander."
The "sick bay" is the hospital part of a warship. It is a place provided with wide, comfortable berths and all the appliances for taking good care of ill men. Sam Truax was carefully placed in one of the berths. He was the only patient there at the time.
Doctor McCrea frequently felt the fellow's pulse, then ran a hand lightly over Sam's face, forehead and temples.
"You might tell me what's the matter with me, Doc," protested Truax.
"Oh, you'll be all right," replied the doctor, evasively.
"When?"
"Oh, in a few days, anyway."
"What have I got? A fever?"
"Now, don't ask questions, my man. Just lie quietly, and let us get you on your feet as soon as possible."
Just then the hospital man returned with a glass of something for which
Doctor McCrea had sent him.
"Drink this," ordered the surgeon.
Truax obeyed.
"Now, in a few minutes, you ought to feel better," urged the surgeon, after the man in the berth had swallowed a sweetish drink.
Did he? Feel better? Truax soon began to turn decidedly white about the gills.
"I—I feel—awful," he groaned.
Doctor McCrea, in silence, again felt the fellow's pulse.
But, in a minute, something happened. A man may feel as well as ever, at one moment. Twenty minutes later, however, if he vomits, it is impossible to convince himself that he feels anything like well.
More of the same draught was brought, and the sick man made to swallow it. Even a third and a fourth dose were administered. Sam Truax became so much worse, in fact, that he did not even hear when the bow cable chains of the gunboat grated as the anchors were let go opposite Blair's Cove just before dark.
Certainly no man of medicine could have been more attentive than was Doctor McCrea. Even when one of the ward-room stewards appeared and announced that dinner was served, the naval surgeon replied:
"I don't know that I shall have any time for dinner to-night."
Then Doctor McCrea turned and again thrust his thermometer between Truax's lips. The reading of that thermometer, two minutes later, seemed to give him a good deal of concern.
"I wish there were a capable physician on shore that I could call in consultation," he remarked in a low tone, but Truax heard and stirred nervously under his blankets.
"I—I wish you could perspire some," said Doctor McCrea, anxiously, as he leaned over the sufferer.
"I—I'm icy c-c-c-cold," chattered Truax.
"Too bad, too bad," declared the naval surgeon, shaking his head.
There was a short interval, during which Truax tossed restlessly.
"Doc," he begged, at last, "I wish you'd tell me what ails me."
"What's the use?" demanded the surgeon, shaking his head.
"Am I—am I—oh, good heavens! There comes that fearful nausea again!"
"No, no! Fight it off! Don't let it get the better of you," urged the surgeon, anxiously.
But the nausea was not to be denied. Presently Truax settled back on his pillows.
"Is there anything on your mind, my man?" asked Doctor McCrea, bending over the sufferer. "Is there anything you'd like to set right, before—before—"
Doctor Mccrea's speech ended in an odd little click in his throat.
"Doctor, am I—am I—"
"Is there any little confession you would like to make? And wrong you may have done that you'd like to set straight, my man? If so, we can take down a statement, you know."
Truax groaned, but there was a look of great fright in his eyes.
"Doc, I—I wonder—if—"
"Well, Truax?"
"Are we at anchor—now?"
"Yes; in the little bay for the night."
"Is—is the 'Farnum' here, too?"
"Yes."
"I—I wonder if Jack Benson would come to see me for a little while?"
"Why, I'll see, of course," volunteered Doctor McCrea, rising and leaving the sick boy.
CHAPTER XXIV
CONCLUSION
Ten minutes later the naval surgeon returned with Benson. With the latter was Hal Hastings. Mr. Mayhew and Ensign Trahern hovered in the rear of the group.
"Here's Mr. Benson, Truax," announced Doctor McCrea. "Now, my man, if there is anything of which you want to unburden your mind, go ahead and do it. The rest of us can bear witness, and help matters straight if, in your better health, you have done anything that needs righting."
Sam Truax feebly stretched out a hand that certainly was hot enough by this time.
"Benson," he begged, weakly, "will you give me your hand?"
"Certainly," nodded Jack, as he did so.
"I—I wonder if you can ever forgive me?" moaned the ill man.
"Why, have you done anything that I don't already know?" asked Jack.
"A lot! Benson, I've been an all-around scoundrel."
"That's certainly surprising news," commented the submarine boy, dryly.
"What have you been doing?"
"That assault back in Dunhaven—?"
"Was it you who knocked me out there, and sprinkled my clothes with whiskey?" demanded young Benson.
"Yes." In a somewhat shaking voice Truax confessed to the details of that outrageous affair. From that he passed on to Jack's never-to-be-forgotten trip into the suburbs of Annapolis.
"I found that mulatto in a low den," confessed the sick man. "I told him you carried a lot of money, and that he'd be welcome to it all if he'd decoy you somewhere, keep you all night, and then send you back, looking like a tramp, to the Naval Academy at the last moment."
Truax also added the name by which the mulatto was known in Annapolis.
"But why have you done all this?" demanded Jack. "What have you had against me?"
"I—I didn't do it on my own account," confessed Truax. "Did you ever hear of Tip Gaynor?"
"No—never," admitted Jack, after a moment's thought.
"He's—he's a salesman, or something like that, for Sidenham."
"The Sidenham Submarine Company?" breathed Jack Benson, intensely interested.
"Yes."
"The Sidenham people are our nearest competitors in the submarine business," muttered young Benson.
"Yes; and of course they wanted to get the business away from the Pollard crowd," confessed Sam Truax. "They told Tip Gaynor it would be worth ten thousand dollars to him for each Sidenham boat he could sell to the United States Government. Tip wanted that money, and your Pollard people were the hardest ones he had to beat. So Tip hired me—"
"One moment," interrupted Jack, quietly. "Did the Sidenham people know that Gaynor intended to use any such methods?"
"I don't believe they did," replied Truax. "In fact, Gaynor as good as told me the Sidenhams didn't know anything about his proposed tricks. He told me I must be very careful to keep the Sidenham name out of it all."
"So Tip Gaynor hired you to do all you could to disgrace me in the eyes of the Navy people?" demanded Jack.
"Yes—to hurt any of you, for that matter."
"And to play tricks in the engine room of either submarine?"
"Yes; Tip Gaynor told me it was highly important to cause the boats to break down while under the eyes of all Annapolis."
"I understand," muttered Jack. "That was clever, in a way. It was intended to make the whole Navy think the Pollard boat one that couldn't be depended upon?"
"That was the idea," assented Sam Truax, weakly.
"What sort of a looking fellow is Tip Gaynor?" asked Jack.
"You've met him!"
"I?" demanded Jack, in astonishment.
"Yes. From what I hear. He was the blackbearded man who drugged you and shanghaied you in the white knockabout. Only Tip doesn't usually wear a beard. He has grown it in the last three or four weeks, in order to hide himself from people who know him well. Then he came down here to Blair's Cove and rented a house so he could watch things. He had a tip that the instruction cruise would center around this little bay."
"So, acting for Tip Gaynor, you undertook to ruin us all, and the good name of our boats?" asked Jack. "And you even met Dave Pollard, and got him to take you on as a machinist for our boats?"
"Yes; Tip knew a man who was willing to introduce me to Pollard."
"It was just like simple, unsuspicious, bighearted Dave Pollard to be taken in by a rascal like that," muttered Jack, to himself. "But, oh, will Pollard ever forgive himself when he hears all this?"
Sam Truax added a few more details to his confession, but they were unimportant.
"I couldn't die without telling you all this, Benson," he added. "I hope you forgive me."
Ere Jack could reply Lieutenant Commander Mayhew stepped forward.
"Truax, I wish to ask you if every word you have uttered is the solemn truth?"
"It is; yes," admitted the sick man.
"Why have you made this confession?"
"Because I feel that I am going to die, and I don't want all this evil charged up against me."
"And you thought it would not be hard to get the better of a boy like
Jack Benson?"
"I thought it would be easy enough," admitted Truax. "So did Tip
Gaynor."
"Then it shows you, Truax," broke in Doctor McCrea, now laughing, "how far below the mark you shot in guessing at Jack Benson's ingenuity and brains. For it was he showed me how to induce you to make this confession, voluntarily, after having refused to answer any of the lieutenant commander's questions."
"What do you mean?" demanded Sam Truax, quickly, a queer look creeping into his face.
"Why, my man, I mean," grinned the naval surgeon, "that, when I was first called in to you, you were no more sick than I was. You were scared, first of all, by the remarks of others. Then, after we got you to bed in here, we dosed you with ippecac a few times. That started your stomach to moving up and down until you were convinced that you were a very sick man."
"What!" now roared Sam Truax, sitting up in the berth and staring angrily.
"Oh, the ippecac was my own choice," nodded the doctor, "but the general idea was Mr. Benson's. My man, with a lad like him you haven't a one-in-ten chance."
"So, to work a confession out of me, you've poisoned me?" gasped Sam
Truax.
"Oh, you're not very badly poisoned," laughed Doctor McCrea. "About the most that you need, now, is to get into your clothes and take a few turns up and down the deck with a marine. The fresh air will brace you up all right. I shan't be surprised if the ippecac leaves you with an appetite after a while."
"You infernal cheat, you!" roared Truax, starting to get out of the berth. But the hospital man thrust him back.
"In view of what you've just been telling us, my man, you had better be just a bit modest about sprinkling bad names around." said the naval surgeon, turning on his heel.
He was followed by Lieutenant Commander Mayhew, Jack Benson and Hal
Hastings. On the faces of all three were rather pronounced grins.
The fellow had been caught easily enough.
"Mr. Benson," cried Doctor McCrea, grasping Jack's hand when the party had returned to the cabin, "I hope you are my friend?"
"I certainly am, sir," cried Jack, warmly.
"Thank you," replied the surgeon, making a comical face. "With your head for doing things, Mr. Benson, I can't help feeling a lot safer with your friendship than I would if I had your enmity."
"How easily the fellow threw everything to the winds!" muttered Mr.
Mayhew, in some disgust.
While they were still chatting in the cabin of the gunboat a shot sounded on the deck. It was quickly followed by another. Then a corporal of marines rushed in, saluting.
"The prisoner, Truax, sir, escaped while taking a walk on deck under guard of a marine. He took to the water headlong, sir. The marine fired after him through the darkness, sir, and a second shot was fired. The officer of the deck sends his compliments, sir, and wants to know if Truax is to be pursued by men in a small boat?"
"At once, and with all diligence," nodded the lieutenant commander.
Though a very thorough search was made, Sam Truax was not found. It was thought, at the time, that the fellow must have been drowned. Months, afterward, however, it was learned that he was skulking in Europe with Tip Gaynor, who had received word in time to make his escape also.
It may be said, in passing, that neither Mr. Farnum nor Mr. Pollard felt it necessary to go to the trouble of trying to have the scoundrels arrested and extradited to this country, and in this Jack Benson agreed. Both rascals were rather certain, thereafter, to give the United States a wide berth.
For some time David Pollard had been holding aloof and keeping very quiet—a habit of his, often displayed for long periods. About this time, however, Mr. Pollard returned, with a triumphant twinkle in his eyes. He had been hard at work upon, and had perfected, an improved device for the discharge of torpedoes through the bow tube of the Pollard submarine boat.
It is to be mentioned, also, that the Sidenham Submarine Company, while admitting that Gaynor had been entrusted with the sale of their boats to the Government, disclaimed all knowledge of the methods that salesman had been employing. Everyone believed the disclaimer of the Sidenham concern, yet up to date none of its boats have been sold to the United States Government.
For two days more the submarine boat instruction continued at sea. Then,
the tour of instruction over, the little flotilla returned to the
Naval Academy at Annapolis. From here Captain Jack Benson wired Mr.
Farnum for further orders. Without delay back came the despatch:
"Navy Department requests that, for present, 'Farnum' be left at
Annapolis. You and your crew will return by rail when ready."
Soon afterward Jack was informed that the Annapolis police had succeeded in running down the mulatto who had decoyed the young submarine skipper on that memorable night. Also, Jack's money, watch and other valuables were recovered and returned to him. The mulatto is now serving a long term in jail. It afterwards turned out that nearly two-score seafaring men had been robbed by the mulatto by the same game that had been played on Jack Benson.
One forenoon when Jack, and his mates were about to go ashore, for good, from the "Farnum," Lieutenant Commander Mayhew came on board, followed by Ensign Trahern and three of the midshipmen who had been under submarine instruction.
"Now, Mr. Benson, and gentlemen," smiled Mr. Mayhew, "I'm not going to frighten you by making any set speech. What I have to say is that the cadet midshipmen who have been under your very capable and much-prized instruction of late, wish each of you to take away a very slight memento of your stay here. There is one for each of you."
Not even Machinist Williamson had been omitted. Each of the four received from the lieutenant commander a small box. Each box, on being opened, proved to contain a small gold shield. In the center was the coat-of-arms of the United States Naval Academy. At the top of each pin was the name of the one to whom it was given. Across the bottom of each pin were inscribed the words:
"From The Battalion of Naval Cadets In Keen Appreciation of Admirable Instruction."
"I do not believe," smiled Mr. Mayhew, "that anyone of you will hesitate about wearing this pin on vest or coat lapel. The gift is a simple one, but it practically makes you honorary members of the United States Navy of the future, and I'm glad of it."
Jack, in a voice that was somewhat husky and shaky, expressed thanks, as best he could, for himself and mates.
Then Lieutenant Commander Mayhew held out his hand.
"Mr. Benson, as you're leaving us, I want to express to you again my regret at having, for a while, believed you to be very different from the real Benson that I am now glad to know."
"Why, sir, I surely can't blame you for what you thought," smiled Jack. "In fact, I feel that I owe a tremendous lot to you for your patience when things looked as black against me as they did."
Jack and his friends, however, did not succeed in getting away from Annapolis until the entire battalion had a few minutes' leisure immediately following the noon meal.
Then the late crew of the "Farnum" had to shake hands rapidly all around. Just before they were summoned back to their duties, the assembled members of the battalion had time to give three rousing cheers just as the carriage bearing our young friends to the railway station rolled away.
It was not long after that the "Farnum" was sold to the United States
Government. Even before the sale took place, Jacob Farnum received by
express a box of handsome mementos sent to Jack Benson by Elsie
Carruthers and her brother.
The time has come, now, to leave the submarine boys, though only briefly. We shall hear of their further doings in the next volume of this series, under the title: "The Submarine Boys and the Spies; Or, Dodging the Sharks of the Deep." This stirring tale of the ocean will deal with the efforts of the boys to protect the secrets of the Pollard submarine system from the foreign spies who beset them with treachery, violence, threats and bribes. It is a narrative full of intense interest.