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 shore 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 muffled 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, snatching 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.
"Don't try it any longer. Get overboard, Miss Desmond, if there's yet time. In heaven's name do!" begged Jack, in a horrified tone. "I can stand going to the bottom if I don't have to drag you down with me. Escape!"
"Not and leave a fellow human being here in your plight," retorted the girl quietly, though with sublime heroism.
"But you can't save me, anyway."
"Then I'll go down at my post, just as a man would," she retorted, throwing all her frantic strength into her task. How she blamed herself that her muscles were so weak!
"Please go! There may be time."
"I'm not thinking of that. Oh, for a man's strength!"
Jack's breath was bated. His dread for himself was forgotten now, as he watched the efforts of this splendid girl.
"We'll take the last plunge at any instant, now!" screamed Jack Benson.
"There may be time for you—"
"Then there'll be time for us both," came the undaunted answer. Grace Desmond did not turn her head as she spoke, but Jack, his intense gaze upon her, knew the light that was flashing in her eyes at this moment.
A sound above told the submarine boy the worst. The water was gently rippling against the edges of the platform deck. That told him, all to plainly, how near the diving boat was to doing the work for which it had been built.
Could Jack have been close enough to see just why Grace was failing in her effort he might have told her better just what to try to do. Now, he tried to explain, rapidly. The fault was not with her strength; there was an exact knack needed in the use of the wrench.
On shore, in the yard, Josh Owen crouched low in his place of concealment. He had failed to prevent Grace from starting in the rowboat because, until it was too late, he did not believe the plucky young woman had any such intention.
"It's too bad for the gal to go to the bottom, too," half sighed the raging one. "But she shouldn't meddle."
Hal came swinging along down the street, having left Eph Somers behind in the village. Through the yard came young Hastings, whistling. By instinct he turned to look at the boat, and what he saw made him gasp, then leap forward in the start of a sprint.
Straight down to the harbor's edge he raced. Then, seeing the rowboat adrift, Hal, after one more look at the sinking submarine, leaped into the water without stopping even to shed jacket or cap.
Splash! In the same instant that he sprang, Josh Owen jumped up.
"Come back here, or ye'll wish ye had!" raged the ex-foreman.
Hal Hastings heard, though he did not even take the trouble to answer, but struck out frenziedly, for his chum's calls for help now rang in his ears.
There was the sound of a discharge, a sharp split of fire from a weapon that Owen held in his hand. A bullet struck the water just before Hal's nose, dashing the spray back in his face.
"Come back here, I tell ye!" raged the ex-foreman.
"Josh Owen's voice!" throbbed Hastings, but he swam on with the strongest strokes of which he was master. Then a succession of shots rang out. Hal Hastings was in the gravest danger he had ever been in.