CHAPTER XI
WHAT BEFELL THE REAL BENSON
Whistling softly, the real Jack Benson went along cheerily to the appointed place.
Being wholly courageous, there was no thought of dread in his mind over any possible treachery.
As he came in sight of the two trees, between which he had been asked to meet the Italian, he made out a man waiting there.
"Good evening," came the low, soft hail.
Then the speaker stepped forward, proving to be the same who had accosted the young submarine captain in the afternoon.
"Good evening," was Jack's pleasant reply. "You're on time, I see."
"Oh, sure!" laughed the Italian. "I been here twenty minute, already."
"Where's your friend?"
"Up in the woods. We take this path here, and we find him."
The Italian took Jack Benson lightly by one arm, piloting the boy until he had turned him into the path. Then the foreigner stepped in advance, saying:
"We reach my friend, in minute."
Thus they proceeded for perhaps five hundred feet into the woods. Presently a small light, looking as though it might be the glowing end of a cigar, appeared ahead.
"Ah, here is my friend," announced the guide. "Giacomo, here is the young captain."
"Hush! Not too loud," came the soft warning from the man behind the cigar.
As Benson came up this second man held out a hand, which the submarine boy unsuspiciously took, at the same time looking over this second man. He appeared, like the first, to be a laborer at the Melville yard.
"I hear you have some interesting word for me," began Benson. "I—oh, great Scott! How dare you?"
For, dropping his cigar from between his teeth, this second Italian, while still holding the boy's hand, gave his wrist a wrenching twist that forced Captain Jack over to the ground.
In a twinkling the guide fell upon him, too.
"What on earth does this mean!" demand Benson, freeing his right hand and doing all in his power to fight.
The spot was fearfully lonely. Captain Jack remembered, in a jiffy, all the gruesome tales he had heard about the dread doings of the Black Hand. Brave though he was, the young submarine expert felt suddenly cold and creepy, though he did not once think of giving up the fight.
"Now, be still you!" ordered the late guide, plaintively. "We not want to hurt you. But, if you make us—"
"Be still, behave, and you be all right," promised the other Italian, in a gruff appeal for reasonableness.
Though he tried to fight like a savage, Jack Benson soon found himself being yanked to his feet, while a stalwart laborer held him by either arm.
"You see, you can do nothing," advised the Italian who had thrown the boy. "You not want to get hurt? We no want hurt you, but if you be one big fool, then—!"
"What's the meaning of this rough game?" Jack demanded, hoarsely.
"You be verra good, no make noise, come with us and wait little while, then you go loose bimeby. Make fight, and well—then we no can help!"
That statement, coupled with the sinister, menacing tone, was sufficiently clear. It didn't take the submarine boy more than a few seconds to realize that he was helpless, and that the most sensible thing to do would be to go along, provided no worse violence than had already been used were attempted.
"Where do you want me to go?" he asked.
"Oh, we show you," replied the late guide, in a tone half implying that he stood ready to do his young captive a great favor.
There appeared to be no help for it. Grim faced, and with teeth tightly clenched, Captain Jack allowed himself to be led on through the woods, both his arms being still tightly held by his conductors. Had they intended any more dastardly violence, he reasoned, they could easily have carried out their purpose without having hauled him to his feet.
No more was said as the three tramped through the woods. Though the Italians did not by any means relax their hold, they used no more force than seemed necessary for their purpose. Indeed, they acted with that smooth consideration typical of the Latin races, even in bad moments.
A tramp of a quarter of a mile brought them to a little clearing in the woods. In the middle of the open space stood a building. As he got closer young Benson saw that it was a dilapidated-looking structure that for many years, probably, had not been a home.
The front door stood open, however, and to this the captors marched their victim.
"Look out you do not trip over broken sill," admonished the late guide, politely. Then, as all three moved into the dark interior:
"You be good, and lay down on floor for minute. That's all."
Jack felt his feet kicked out from under him. Down he went, one of the Italians sitting firmly on him. The other went across the room, fumbled, and presently lighted a lantern in an open cupboard.
"Now, you come along, no fuss and no hurt," advised the late guide, as they raised the boy. They conducted him through into a rear room, where one of the pair raised a trap-door in the floor.
"Now, this is easy," smiled one of the pair, pointing to the darkness under the open trap.
"We have take ladder away, but you can drop. Not far."
Then, seeing a look of alarm flit across the boy's face, the fellow laughed, adding:
"No hurt. All right. See?"
He dropped a stone through the trapway. It fell on ground underneath, nor did the distance down appear to be more than a few feet.
"Cellar, that's all," grinned the Italian, reassuringly. "Now, drop, and we not hurt you. No danger. In two, three, four hour we put down ladder and let you up. Keep you here little while; that's all."
Of course Jack Benson could have tried to put up a fight, but he knew he would easily be beaten. Besides, these men, smiling and polite as they now appeared, might have tempers bad enough to lead them to resort to Italian steel, if they had to do it. Therefore Jack nodded, then knelt at the trapway, and next, with an inward prayer, let himself drop down into the darkness. He landed on damp, soft earth.
"Good boy!" called one of the Italians, the lantern lighting his smiling face as it appeared framed by the trapway for an instant. "Not so very long to wait. Let you out so you go home, bimeby."
Then the trapdoor was gently put tack in place, after which Jack heard the click of a padlock above to secure the barrier in place.
Young Benson got upon his feet, stretched to make sure he was unhurt, then broke forth, under his breath:
"Of all the prize fools in the world, commend me to Jack Benson! Here, at the request of a perfect stranger, I've taken a long walk this night, just in order to place myself wholly in the hands of men who, however mild they may be in their piracy, certainly wish me no good. Oh, you, Jack! Oh, you blooming, prize idiot!"
Then he smiled grimly, wondering. From what had happened so far he felt inclined to believe the smiling rascals above. Had they intended worse violence, they had had abundant opportunity to show it.
"Of course, they're probably stretching a point when they say I'm to be
here only three or four hours," reflected the boy. "Yet, now I'm here,
I imagine I'll have to remain here until they're pleased to let me out.
But—will I, though?"
Overhead, at that moment, sounded the tinkle of a mandolin. It came, apparently, from the room nearer the front door. The two foreigners began to hum softly to the accompaniment of their instrument.
"May-be it was a lucky thing it never occurred to the pair to search me," murmured the submarine boy. "Probably they wouldn't have left this box of matches in my possession."
Lighting one of the matches, Jack began to explore. The cellar was much like any other, and wholly empty. On each side was a little, low window, probably not large enough for the submarine boy to crawl through. Even at that the openings had been bricked up and looked as though they would resist a long assault.
At the rear of the cellar were steps, leading up to a stout-looking bulkhead. It was padlocked, on the under side, with stout hasp and staples.
"Nothing doing here, either," muttered Jack. "Yet—hold on—blazes!"
Almost feverishly he felt in an inner pocket. It was there—a case containing seven or eight small, fine saws and other tools often employed by machinists in constructing small devices or models. He had been using some of the instruments on the boat that afternoon.
"Wow!" sputtered the submarine boy, joyously. "And again—some more wow!"
Lighting another match, carefully selecting his saw, and then lighting still another match, he took a look at the padlock, trying to find some portion of the ring where the metal was more slender. The saw was intended for use on metals. After he had made a sufficient notch in the ring, young Benson was able to work, much of the time, in darkness.
"Blessings on that mandolin," chuckled this industrious young human beaver. "If it wasn't for their jolly old twang-twang those Italians might hear my fairy buzz-saw at work."
Yet, though he progressed, what a fearful length of time this task appeared to take!
"And, if it turns out that there's another padlock in place on the outside, this will be just another case of love's labor lose," sighed the boy.
Occasionally, when the mandolin sounds ceased for a few moments, Benson rested, too. It would never do to take the risk of having his slight noise overheard.
At last! The saw went through the ring, proclaiming the task all but finished. First, with trembling fingers, the submarine boy replaced the saw in its case. Then, with another tough little tool, he started patiently to bend the severed ends of the ring metal sufficiently far apart. In this he succeeded finally.
Removing the padlock, he let the hasp fall away from the staple. On the floor above the mandolin was twanging merrily, the voices of the Italians rising somewhat in their song.
With his pulses throbbing, Jack Benson essayed to raise the bulkhead. Glory! It rose! A moment later Captain Jack Benson was out in the open, under the cloudy skies.
No time did he lose there, however. Stealing softly for the woods, he sped on into them. Nor did he cease his hurried gait until he had covered at least a quarter of a mile.
"Not much risk of their finding me, now, even if they're wise at last," reflected the submarine boy, slowing down to an easier walk.
In all, Captain Jack must have gone nearly three-quarters of a mile from the scene of his late confinement when something occurred that made him fairly jump.
Ahead there came the sound of rapid steps. Then the sounds of a slight scuffle, followed by Don Melville's undoubted tones, shouting:
"Run, Benson! He'll never catch you now!"
"How on earth does Don Melville know I'm here?" quivered Jack, stopping short.