The Submarine Boys on Duty Part 1

The Submarine Boys on Duty.

by Victor G. Durham.

CHAPTER I

TWO BOYS WHO PLANNED TO BECOME GREAT

"So this is Dunhaven?" inquired Jack Benson.

"Ye-es," slowly responded Jabez Holt, not rising from the chair in which he sat tilted back against the outer wall on the hotel porch.

"It looks like it," muttered Hal Hastings, under his breath.

"Doesn't look like a very bustling place, does it?" asked Jack, with a smile, as he set down a black, cloth-covered box on the porch and leisurely helped himself to a chair.

The box looked as though it might contain a camera. "Tin-type fellers,"

thought Holt to himself, and did not form a very high estimate of the two boys, neither of whom was more than sixteen years of age.

Just now, both boys were dusty from long travel on foot, which condition, at a merely first glance, concealed the fact that both were neatly enough, even if plainly, dressed.

"Huh!" was all the response Jabez Holt made to Jack's pleasant comment.

Hal, however, not in the least discouraged by a reception that was not wholly flattering, set down a box not unlike Jack's, and also something hidden in a green cloth cover that suggested a camera tripod. Hal helped himself to one of the two remaining chairs on the porch of the little hotel.

"Takin' pictures?" asked Jabez Holt, after a pause spent in chewing at a tooth-pick.

"Yes, some of the time," Jack a.s.sented. "It helps out a bit when two fellows without rich fathers take a notion to travel."

"I s'pose so," grunted Jabez. He was not usually considered, by his fellow-townsmen, a disagreeable fellow, but a hotel keeper must always preserve a proper balance of suspicion when dealing with strangers, and especially strangers who follow callings that do not commonly lead to prosperity. Probably "Old Man" Holt, as he was known, remembered a few experiences with the tribe of itinerant photographers. At any rate he did not mean to make the mistake of being too cordial with these young representatives of the snap-shot art.

"Is there any business around here?" asked Jack, after awhile.

"Oh, there's a Main Street, back uptown, that has some real pretty homes," admitted the hotel keeper, "an' some likely-lookin' cross streets. Dunhaven ain't an awful homely town, as ye'll see after you've walked about a bit."

"But is there any business here?" insisted Hal Hastings, patiently.

"I guess maybe you're business photografters, then?" suggested the hotel keeper.

"What kinds of business are there here?" asked Jack.

Jabez Holt cast away a much-mangled toothpick and placed another in his mouth before he replied, with a chuckle:

"Well, I reckon about the only business here that the town is doing any talkin' about at present is one that don't want no photografters around."

"And what may that business be?" persisted Jack.

"Well, down to Farnum's boatyard they're putting up a craft that's known as 'Pollard's Folly.'"

"And why wouldn't they want that photographed?" demanded young Benson.

"Because it's one of them sure-death boats they hope to sell the Government, and the United States Government don't care 'bout havin'

its war craft secrets snap-shotted," replied Jabez Holt.

"Didn't you speak of Pollard's boat?" demanded Jack, his eyes agleam with sudden interest.

"Ye-es," admitted Mr. Holt, slowly. "A boat that'll drown its score of men, I reckon, an' then lay somewhere an' eat itself out with rust."

"A submarine boat, isn't it?" continued Jack, quickly.

"Yep; submarine torpedo boat: One of them crazy craft that men _will_ build against all sense of what's decent on salt water."

"Why, I've read about _that_ boat;" Jack ran on, eagerly. "And, from what the newspapers said, I've gathered the idea that David Pollard's boat is going to put the United States completely ahead of all other nations at sea."

"That's the way Dave Pollard talks," returned Mr. Holt, grimly. "But folks 'round Dunhaven, I must say, don't think over an' above of him or his boat. They--"

"Oh, bother the folks around Dunhaven!" broke in Jack Benson, impatiently. "If the place is the best they know how to do in the way of a town, I don't care a heap about their ideas of boats. And--but I beg your pardon, Mr. Holt. My tongue's running a bit ahead of my manners, I guess. So this is where that famous submarine torpedo boat is being built? And she's a diving boat, at that?"

"Well, I guess mebbe she'll dive, all right," chuckled Jabez Holt. "But as to her comin' up again, I reckon the 'Pollard' ain't goin' to be so certain."

"Where are they building her? Farnum's shipyard, you said?"

"Right over yonder," explained Mr. Holt, pointing to a high board fence that enclosed a s.p.a.ce down by the water front. Farnum's "boatyard,"

as thus seen, was about an eighth of a mile from the little hotel, and looked as though it might be considerable of a plant.

"Who's in charge of the boat?" was Jack's next question.

"Well, now, that's a conundrum," replied Jabez Holt, pondering. "Jake Farnum owns the yard. Jake is a young man, only a few years out of college. He inherited the business from his father, who's dead. Jake is considered a pretty good business man, though he don't know much 'bout boats, an' can't seem to learn a heap, nuther. So Jake leans on Asa Partridge, the superintendent, who was also superintendent under old man Farnum. However, old man Farnum's line was building sailing yachts, small schooners, and, once in a while, a tug-boat. That's in Asa Partridge's line, but he won't have nothin' much to do with new schemes like diving torpedo boats."

"Then--" hinted Jack.

"I'm a-comin' on with the yarn," replied Jabez Kolt, patiently. "Now, Dave Pollard, the inventor of the boat, is a powerful bright young man, on theory, some folks says, but he ain't much use with tools in his hands. But he an' young Jake Farnum hang 'round, watching and bossing, and they have a foreman of the gang, Joshua Owen, who knows he knows most everything 'bout buildin' any kind of boat. So, barrin' the fussing of Farnum and Pollard, I guess Josh Owen is the real boss of the job, since the riveters' gang came an' put the hull together, an'

went away."

"Then I suppose Mr. Owen--" began Jack.

"Ja-a-abez! Jabez Holt! Come here!" rang a shrill, feminine voice from the interior of the hotel.

"Must be goin', for a few minutes, anyway," grunted Jabez, rising and leaving the two boys. But no sooner was he out of sight than Jack Benson turned upon his chum, his eyes ablaze.

"Hal Hastings," he effused, in a low voice, "I had forgotten that Dunhaven was the home of the Pollard boat. But, since it is, and since we're here--why, here we'd better stay."

"Do you think we can get in on that job?" asked Hal, dubiously.

"Not if we just sit around and wonder, or if we go meekly and ask for a job, and turn sadly away when we're refused," retorted Jack Benson, with a vim that was characteristic of him. "Hal, my boy, we're simply going to shove ourselves into jobs in that boatyard, and we're going to have a whack at the whole game of building and fitting out a submarine torpedo boat. Do you catch the idea? We're just going to hustle ourselves into the one job that would suit us better than anything else on earth!"

"Bully!" agreed Hal, wistfully. "I hope you can work it."

"_We_ can," returned his chum, spiritedly. "Team work, you know.