At precisely that instant, like a projectile from a gun the ensign's powerful body shot forward. Crash came his solid one hundred and eighty-five pounds against the door.
At the same instant there was another crash, the sharp crack of a revolver! In that confined space it sounded terribly loud.
"He's shot him!" cried Mr. Barr.
But Barton had done nothing of the kind. The attack had been utterly unexpected by him, and as the door banged against him with terrific force, he had been knocked down. As he fell the revolver exploded; before he could pull the trigger a second time the powerful young officer of Uncle Sam's Navy was upon the man. Barton fought like a wildcat, and with the superhuman strength of those afflicted with insanity.
At last, however, he was overpowered and, raving incoherently, was tied hand and foot and carried out to the cabin where he was placed on a lounge. Mr. Barr, who knew something of medicine, gave him a calming dose from the submarine's medicine chest, and he became less violent.
"Barton, where did you put that lever?" demanded the ensign.
The man whimpered like a child.
"I—I don't remember," he gasped out.
Consternation showed on every face. Already the air was getting worse and worse.
The ensign bent over the bound man, who was now crying weakly.