The Tarantula, black, grim and business-like, lay at anchor off the mouth of the Jew-Fish River, her long, lean form rising and falling on the heavy swells and a curl of black smoke lazily issuing from each of her four black funnels, the foremost one of which was striped with four yellow bands.

Forward her crew lay about and loafed or fished, while aft Lieutenant Selby and the ensigns assigned to the command with him, paced the deck, looking from time to time into the wireless room to ascertain if any news had been heard from the boys. The answer each time was in the negative and hourly the naval officer’s apprehension grew. What could be the matter? If everything had gone well he should certainly have heard from them by now.

Of the submarine, also, nothing had been seen and this fact encouraged the young officer to believe that she was still up the river somewhere. A bright lookout had been kept day and night since Frank’s wireless announcing the discovery of Captain Bellman’s destination, but nothing had been seen of the expected craft. That she had utilized her diving apparatus and passed unnoticed in that way was unlikely as the water in which the Tarantula lay, was shoal even for her and the soundings that the lieutenant had made the day before showed that it would have been impossible for the submarine to have passed out in any other way but the main channel. So with steam up the Tarantula swung at her anchor and waited like a patient cat, watching an opportunity to pounce on a mouse. The idea of entering the river in boats and scouting for the submarine had entered the lieutenant’s head, but after consideration he had abandoned it. To reveal his presence to Bellman might spoil everything and as it was if the submarine was in the river, she was securely bottled up.

The hours slowly passed on and still no word came. Evening set in and the wireless was still silent.

“If those young rascals haven’t shown up by tomorrow morning, Bagsby, I shall be sorely tempted to head an expedition myself and go in search of them,” declared Selby—on whom the strain of the long wait was wearing—to one of his ensigns.

“Air-ship! dead off our bow, sir!” suddenly hailed the lookout forward; who, like everybody else, had been keeping a watch all day for some signs of the boys’ craft.

“By Jove, so it is!” exclaimed the lieutenant, bringing his glasses to bear.

High in the evening sky above the tangle of islands an air-craft was winging its way toward them. At first sight a mere speck, she grew rapidly larger as she neared the shore.

“But what can have happened to her?” exclaimed the lieutenant as the first vague blot of the ship resolved through his glasses into definite lines, “here, take a look, Bagsby.”

He handed the glasses to his subordinate, who laid them aside in a few minutes with the exclamation.

“Why, she’s as black as a coal, sir!”

“What’s that dangling at her stern, Bagsby?” asked Lieutenant Selby the next minute.

“Why, it looks like an American flag, sir,” responded the ensign, “but it’s almost as black as the rest of her and—just look at that, sir—the men in her all black, too!”

Hardly able to control his excitement the lieutenant took the glasses from his subordinate, though by this time the air-vessel was so close that the five persons aboard her were visible to the naked eye. They were waving furiously and shouting at the tops of their voices, though these sounded, to tell the truth, a bit feeble.

“Tarantula, ahoy!” came a hail from the aeroplane, as she swung in a graceful circle about the destroyer.

“Ahoy there,” hailed the lieutenant through a megaphone, “who are you?”

“The Golden Eagle II, Captain Frank Chester,” came back from the aeroplane as she swung by, “with Lieutenant Bob Chapin, aboard.”

The cheer that went up then roused the herons that were just settling down to bed and sent them and a hundred other varieties of Everglade birds swirling in wild affright up around the tree-tops. As for Selby he clapped Bagsby on the back till the young ensign sustained a violent fit of coughing.

“It’s Chapin and he’s safe; hurray!” he shouted. “Those boys have done the trick!”

“Send a boat ashore for us,” shouted the leader of the adventurers from the smoke-blackened ’plane, as she swung by once more, “we’ve got a lot to tell you.”

“I should think so,” commented the lieutenant to himself, as he ordered a boat lowered and seated himself in the stern sheets. While this was being done the boys had landed on a long sandy bar, which made an ideal grounding place. It didn’t take long, you may be sure, to get them into the boat and row them aboard the Tarantula where, after soap and towel had removed their sooty disguise, they made a meal that tasted to them infinitely more delicious than any of the more elaborate repasts any of them had ever eaten in New York. As for Lieutenant Chapin, to be once more aboard one of Uncle Sam’s ships and in the hands of friends, affected him to such a degree that after dinner he begged to be excused and paced in solitude up and down the deck for an hour or more, while Frank told and retold the story of their adventures.

While the lieutenant was gratefully recalling the boys’ exploit, he was awakened from his reverie by the splash of a paddle and looking up saw a canoe drawing near in which were seated three people. It was too dark of course for him to make out more than the outlines of their figures.

“Boat ahoy! What boat’s that?” hailed the lookout sharply.

“Well, we ain’t got no name but an Injun one and I disremember that,” came back the reply, “but tell me have you got two young chaps, named Chester, aboard?”

“Who is that?” hailed the lieutenant.

“My name’s Ben Stubbs. Who the dickens are you?” was the bluff reply.

“Lieutenant Chapin,” was the calm reply.

The result was astonishing.

“Well, I’ll be double horn-swoggled,” shouted the same bluff voice that had framed the question and the next minute there was a splash and loud sputtering sounds of indignation.

“Man overboard!” cried the Tarantula’s lookout.

“You black landlubbers! Upsetting me overboard and trying to drown me, eh? Ef I had you at a rope’s end I’d make you walk fancy,” came over the water in tones running the gamut of indignation.

By this time the boys and the others were on deck and as they heard and amazedly recognized the sputtering voice there came from them a delighted hail of:

“Ben Stubbs!”

“Come aboard!”

“Sure I will if this consarned contraption of a canoe we’re in wull hold me an’ my voice, but every time I speak it tips over,” was the indignant reply.

But there were no more accidents and a few seconds later the boys and the dripping Ben were wringing hands and slapping backs till the tears came to the rugged old adventurer’s eyes.

“Keelhaul me if I ain’t glad to see you,” shouted Ben, “and the lootinant, too. I knowed they’d git yer ef they set out to,” roared Ben, “and by the great horn-spoon, they have.”

While this was going on the two other occupants of the boat—who were none other than Quatty and Pork Chops—had clambered on deck and stood shyly by. They, too, came in for their share of greetings and congratulations.

Then Ben, of course, had to relate his adventures with the Seminoles, winding up with the account of how he came to leave the Indian village.

It seemed that a wandering party of Seminoles had come across Quatty, wearily paddling toward the coast from the mound-builders’ island, and as he was almost exhausted had taken him in their canoes and poled him at top speed to the island. Arrived there Quatty was roused to great indignation, as well as surprise when he discovered that Ben was a captive and demanded his immediate release. By virtue of Quatty’s power over the tribesmen, Ben had immediately been set free and he and Quatty canoed to Camp Walrus. Here they found Pork Chops, half crazy from fright and as he would not hear of being left alone any longer they agreed to take him with them to the Tarantula, whither Ben had decided to go as soon as he found the camp deserted. The rest the boys knew.

The relation of Ben’s narrative, and of course that of the boys which had to be retold to the newcomer, consumed so much time that they were all startled when eight bells (midnight) rang out.

The echo had hardly died away when a black form was seen rushing through the water from the mouth of the river.

It was sighted simultaneously by almost all on deck and recognized at once for what it was.

Captain Bellman’s submarine!