CHAPTER XVI
THE LAST SECOND OF THE NICK OF TIME
Despite the whistle of lead, minding only the spray that dashed into his eyes, Hal Hastings swam on.
His one idea, at present, was to reach that submarine boat if it were within human power to do so ere the boat, now nearly all submerged, took the final plunge below the waves.
Grace Desmond did not quit her post, nor cease her heroic efforts to turn on the compressed air. Yet she added her shrill shrieks to Jack Benson's lusty yells for help.
The sounds of the shots from the shore gave them a momentary hope that help of some sort was really on its way.
"It's the last second or two, if you mean to save us!" yelled Jack, at the top of his voice.
Bang! bang! Josh Owen fired two more shots from his dangerous automatic revolver as Hal caught at the rail of the boat.
"The last chance to save us!" repeated Jack.
"I know it," came, breathlessly, as the dripping Hal dropped down the manhole. He did not even wait to make use of the stairs.
By a fortunate impulse Grace Desmond fell back as young Hastings appeared. Hal's right hand shot out, gripping the wrench. The "Pollard" gave a surge that all aboard believed to be her final one.
Yet Hal hung to his post, resolved to go down trying.
There was a hiss of compressed air. The "Pollard" didn't quite make the death plunge. Then she seemed to go, ever so little, toward a more level keel.
"I—believe—I've got her!" cried Hal Hastings.
A moment or two later he felt sure of it. He gave a cheer to ease his pent-up feelings, then suddenly gasped:
"Jack, do you know how much compressed air there is?"
"No," replied Benson, blankly.
"Heaven grant there's enough for what we must do," prayed Hal, aloud.
There were two shots over in the yard just now. The three young people heard the discharges, though they paid no heed to them at this critical instant.
Slowly the "Pollard" continued to regain evenness of keel.
Then Hastings, shifting the wrench to another part of the compressed air apparatus, opened the sea-valves of the amidships water tanks to expel water.
Briefly, now, they knew that the "Pollard" had risen. Also, she was resting on an even keel. Hal, bedewed with cold perspiration, darted up the stairs to the conning tower. He looked out, and the first glance told him the "Pollard" was riding the water as she should.
"It's all right—now," he called down, with a strong effort at calmness.
"Jack, what on earth happened that you had to call for help!"
Then he caught sight of his chum, lashed to the stanchion. Hastings's mouth went wide agape with astonishment.
"Jack—how on earth—did Josh Owen—"
"Yes," nodded Benson, quickly. "This was his work. Get me free from this stanchion, won't you?"
Despite his elaborate effort at calmness Hal Hastings shook so that it was some seconds before he could get his knife from a pocket.
"Wait till I steady down," Hal muttered, grimly. "I'm afraid of stabbing you."
At last, however, Hastings controlled his right hand enough to feel safe in slashing the cords. Jack, weak-kneed, stepped away from the stanchion, though he was still handcuffed.
"Thanks, old fellow. That's enough for the moment," said Jack, whose face was still ashen gray. "Miss Desmond—"
Both boys wheeled together to speak to that splendid young woman. They paused with their lips open. Grace Desmond could not have heard them; she had fainted, lying inert across one of the seats.
"She's a brick—a wonder—clean grit," broke from Jack, softly, admiringly.
When Josh Owen saw Hal drop through the manhole, and then saw the submarine's dive arrested, he realized that it was time for instant flight. Yet, as he turned to dash away, he found himself confronting the muzzle of a revolver held by the night watchman, who had been outside the yard at a little distance, but whom Josh's firing had brought back on the run.
"Throw up your hands, Owen. You're my prisoner," said the watchman, crisply.
But the ex-foreman much preferred being shot to taken. Flourishing his weapon, he turned, making a dash for the street gate.
Then it was that the foreman fired the two shots heard by the young people on the "Pollard."
Both shots missed. Thereupon, the watchman lowered his weapon and dashed after the fugitive.
Eph Somers, coming down the street to go aboard, heard, the shots.
"Me for a high roost, if there's trouble," uttered Somers, dryly. He climbed the fence, close to the gate. An instant later Josh Owen darted out. As he passed, Eph, with a fine eye, measured the time, and dropped fairly a-straddle of the fleeing one's shoulders.
"Whoa, you big draft-horse!" chuckled Eph, holding on to Owen's head for grim life. Under the weight and the unexpected shock the ex-foreman sank to the sidewalk.
Had the night watchman continued the chase they would have had Josh Owen then and there. But the watchman, knowing that he was a poor sprinter, and that Josh was a fast one, turned, just inside the gate, to rush to the telephone and notify the constable.
So Josh, on his hands and knees, after he recovered from his first astonishment, found he had only Eph to fight. Young Somers was all grit when aroused, nor was he lacking in muscle. But he was no match for Josh. There was a brief, heated contest. Then Eph, dizzy from a blow in the chest that winded him, staggered back. Owen swiftly vanished in the darkness, but Eph, when he got to his feet again, clutched the empty revolver that he had twisted from Owen's hand.
So much racket of firearms on a still night had aroused many people. It was not long before there was a crowd at the yard. Mr. Farnum was quickly on the scene. Soon after him came David Pollard.
The rowboat was recovered and those on the submarine brought ashore. Grace Desmond's faint had been a short one; at the first dash of water in her face she had come out of her swoon. The handcuffs were quickly filed off Jack's wrists.
In the yard office as many persons as were admitted heard a tale that made them feel creepy.
"You splendid, brave girl!" cried Jacob Farnum, patting Miss Desmond's shoulder. Then he sent a man after a carriage to take the young woman to the home of her friends.
That night the yard's owner made announcement of a reward of one thousand dollars for Josh Owen's capture—dead or alive.
"That fellow has proved himself more dangerous than an ordinary lunatic, and he knows too much about submarine boats for my comfort. He's even capable, some dark night, of putting a mine under the 'Pollard' big enough to destroy her at anchorage."
"We'll have to keep deck watch through the night, then," proposed Jack
Benson.
"Very well, Captain. I put you in command," smiled Mr. Farnum.
"I can keep a sharp lookout without the title of captain," responded the submarine boy.
"But you are going to be in charge of the boat—at least until she's sold to the Government or consigned to the junk-heap. So why not be captain from now on?"
Thus it was settled, off-hand. Jack flushed with delight. Had it been possible for him to be more loyal, or devoted to the interests of the builder, he would have been from that moment.
Jack took his own first deck-watch that night, dividing the remaining time up to six o'clock between Hal and Eph.
In the morning captain and crew had hardly more than finished breakfast when Jacob Farnum and Mr. Pollard came off from shore in the tender. Both looked highly pleased about something.
"I haven't mentioned anything about this before," announced the builder, "but I've been pulling some strong wires at Washington for some time. As a result I've just received orders from the Navy Department to attend the summer manoeuvres of the fleet at Cape Adamson. We're to have our trial by the Government there."
"How soon do we start?" cried Jack, eagerly.
"We'll start this afternoon, so as to be in plenty of time. It's only about a seven hours' run for us, though, and we're not expected at Cape Adamson before to-morrow evening. Can you be ready, Captain?"
"Why, there's nothing to do, sir, but to take aboard more gasoline and water. We can do that in an hour."
"We'll drop out to sea, then, about five o'clock this afternoon," decided Mr. Farnum, as he and the inventor rose. "Don't get flurried about anything, Captain Benson."
"Be very sure I won't, sir," replied Jack, earnestly. "And we'll be ready to start at the stroke of five. But I've been thinking, sir, and there's one question I want to ask. Does Grant Andrews go with us?
"No," replied Mr. Farnum, dropping his voice. "I need Grant for other work. The first hint I get at Cape Adamson that we have a winner in the way of a submarine, I'm going wire Andrews to start laying the keel for another. He has his orders, and knows what may be coming."
"We really ought to have a fourth member of the crew, sir," explained
Captain Jack, "if we're to keep watch and perhaps run on long trips."
"I'll see if I can get someone who'll be any good to us," nodded Mr. Farnum, seriously. Then he and the inventor went ashore, leaving the young captain to the leisurely task of fitting for sea service.
The news that the "Pollard" was going to attend the naval manoeuvres at Cape Adamson soon became noised about Dunhaven, for Mr. Farnum saw no reason for holding back the nature of his orders from Washington. It was not long before groups of people gathered on the shore, on either side of the boat yard, to gaze with increased interest at the grim, mysterious looking submarine.
Before one o'clock Mr. Farnum put off in the tender with a stranger, a swarthy, stalwart, almost gigantic looking man of about forty.
"I've got you just the man you want, Captain," called the builder, joyously, as he came aboard. "Captain, this is Bill Henderson, late boatswain's mate, of the United States Navy. He knows all about our line of work, for his papers show that he has served aboard various submarine torpedo craft belonging to the Government. He's a crack helmsman, a navigator, and knows all about our kind of machinery."
During this introduction Henderson had saluted and scraped. He now stood at attention.
"The youngest captain I've ever sailed under, sir," he said to Jack. "But I'm satisfied you know the business, or Mr. Farnum wouldn't have given you the berth. At your orders, sir."
After Mr. Farnum had returned to shore Benson put his new hand through a searching quiz. If there was anything Boatswain's Mate Henderson did not know about submarine boat work, then the young captain was not able to find out what it was.
"Bill Henderson ought to be captain, not I," whispered Jack to his chum.
"If Mr. Farnum didn't find that out for himself," replied Hal, dryly, "don't tell him."
"This man Henderson is certainly a jewel for us," murmured Captain Jack.
At the moment the three boys were standing on the platform deck, while
Henderson was stowing his limited baggage away below.
"Now, Cap, take this from me," muttered Eph, with the air of a wiseacre. "When a man seems a crackerjack at anything, and doesn't have as good a position as you think he ought to have, keep your eye on him."
"For what?" asked Captain Jack, smilingly.
"Oh, just to see what turns out to be wrong with the fellow."
"What can be, wrong with Henderson?"
"I didn't say anything was, did I?" queried Eph Somers.
"And I don't believe anything can be," responded Jack Benson, hopefully.
"Mr. Farnum has looked over the man's Navy discharge papers, and
Mr. Farnum isn't an easy one to take in."