The Submarine Boys on Duty Part 23

Down at the water's edge lay the "Pollard's" rowboat tender. A final survey satisfied Josh Owen that the watchman was nowhere about. An instant later the former foreman was in the rowboat, handling the oars so quietly as to make hardly any sound. Two or three minutes later he was alongside the "Pollard," stealthily making the painter fast to the deck rail. Then, in his bare feet, Josh went softly up over the side.

At the manhole he crouched to peer below. He could not see the boy, but the shadow told him that Benson was sitting with his back to the stairway.

A gleam of insane wickedness in his eyes--for brooding had somewhat unbalanced the former foreman's mind--Josh Owen started softly down the stairway.

Fancying he heard some slight, unusual sound, Jack Benson turned. Too late! The powerful ex-foreman leaped, upon him, bearing the boy to the floor and holding him there helpless.

"You little sneak, I've waited for this time!" snarled Owen, hoa.r.s.ely.

"But now--"

Josh rolled the boy over, yanked a pair of steel handcuffs from a rear pocket, and quickly, despite Benson's struggles snapped them onto the Submarine boy's wrists.

"Now, I've got ye!" he finished, his flaming eyes close to Jack's.

"For a little while," jeered Benson, as calmly as he could force himself to speak.

It was an unfortunate speech.

"Thank ye for warnin' me that the time's short," chuckled the brute.

With that he lifted the boy, bore him back to a stanchion, and swiftly tied him to it in a standing position.

"That's all but the last thing I've got to do," pursued Josh Owen, drawing back. "Boy, ye did yer worst for me, when ye had the chance.

And ye was the means of havin' Danny locked up. Mebbe Dan Jaggers did give me some sleepin' stuff, an' maybe he did worry my own share of the money from me; but, boy, ye never knew how much store I set by Danny in spite o' some things. And now, he's locked up tight, thanks to you, an' the constables are chasin' me from cover to cover, lookin' for me everywhere. Howsomever, this settles the account!"

Jack Benson's heart seemed to stop beating as he realized what the rage-crazed fellow was up to.

Josh Owen deftly handled the mechanism that opened the sea-valves to let water into the diving tanks.

"I'm turnin' the water in slow," he announced. "That'll give me time to git away. This is a divin' boat. _Well, Dive in her!_"

CHAPTER XV

THE COURAGE THAT RANG TRUE

In that first awful moment after he was left alone, Jack Benson's first feeling was that it must all be an unbelievable dream.

Yet he knew that it was not. In his frenzy he tugged at the handcuffs, fought with the cords that bound him to the stanchion, but all in vain.

The sea-valves had been opened only enough to let the water in slowly.

Almost at the outset, however, the keel slanted downward, for most of the water was coming into the tanks the bow of the boat.

"Help! Help, quick!" roared Benson at the top of his voice. The side ports were not open, but the manhole was, and the ventilators were in place. The submarine boy shouted in the hope that the night watchman might hear and reach the scene in time to effect a rescue.

The keel was still more slanting. At the instant when the diving tanks held water enough to overbalance the buoyancy of the craft the "Pollard" was bound to take a sudden lurch and go below.

Still fighting uselessly though frantically at the bonds that held him helpless in this terrible crisis, Jack also kept up his yells.

The watchman did not hear. He was not near enough. Josh Owen, having gained the sh.o.r.e and hauled the rowboat up, fled a short distance, then crouched in hiding, waiting to see the effects of his terrible deed.

Only one other person was in the yard. Grace Desmond, unknown to her employer, had come to the office in the evening, bent on posting up a set of books that were in her care.

She had finished her work, and was stepping out into the yard, adjusting her hat, when she heard one of those m.u.f.fled appeals for help.

At the first sound she was not even sure of the word, but something in the faintly-heard accent claimed her attention. She stopped short, listening intently.

"Help! Aboard the submarine!"

This time, though the appeal seemed to come from a great distance, she distinguished the words.

"Something wrong with the diving boat, and someone aboard!" she thought, with a tugging throb at the heart. Turning, she sped down to the water's edge.

"Help! help! The boat is sinking, and I'm helpless aboard."

She could see the bow slanting forward in the water, and realized that all was wrong with the torpedo boat, and with some hapless human being aboard. In that instant Grace Desmond's courage rang true.

Espying the rowboat, she bounded into it, s.n.a.t.c.hing up an oar and pushing off. At home on the water and skilled with oars, she pulled a strong, rapid stroke until she lay alongside the "Pollard."

"Keep cool. Help is coming!" called the girl, as she ran alongside.

She caught at the lower portion of the deck rail and drew herself up.

It was but an instant later when she went gliding down the spiral stairway.

Then, all in a flash, she caught sight of Jack Benson, lashed to the stanchion. She comprehended, also, that whoever had tied the boy in this fashion must have thrown the sea-valves partly open. That floor was fast becoming an unsteady platform.

"You turn on the compressed air with a wrench, don't you?" she demanded, swiftly.

"Yes," nodded the submarine boy. Then added, instantly:

"But you're a woman. These risks are not for you. Rush up through the manhole and escape. There may be time."

"Where's the wrench? Tell me quickly," commanded Grace Desmond. "I can turn on the air more quickly than I can set you free to do it."

"Yes," breathed the boy, rapidly, "because I'm manacled, anyway.

But save yourself, Miss Desmond."

"We must both go down if you don't tell me quickly where to find the wrench," cried the girl, stamping her foot with impatience.

Then Jack told her, only when he realized that she would not save herself at his expense. Fortunately, Josh Owen had overlooked securing that wrench and throwing it overboard. In another moment Miss Desmond had the implement.

"The forward compressor, first," Jack directed.

With a quick comprehension that asked only bare details, Miss Desmond fitted the wrench just where it should go.

"A hard turn forward," called Benson.

The girl gave the twist, as directed, as hard a turn as she could make.

To her horror she fancied the muscles of her wrist not quite equal to the need of that dread movement. The floor was slanting so that she was obliged to throw out her left hand to clutch at a support in order to hold herself up.