“There has been some queer work here,” muttered Hal in Eph's ear. “Don't torment him [pg 057] with questions. Just help me to get him down to the yard.”
While the two submarine boys were guiding their weak, dizzy comrade out to the sidewalk a man came by with a swinging stride. Then he stopped short, staring in amazement.
“Hullo, boys! What on earth has happened?”
It was Grant Andrews, foreman of the submarine work at the yard, and a warm personal friend of Benson's.
“I don't believe the old chap feels like telling us just now,” muttered Hal, with a sour face.
“Whiskey!” muttered Andrews, almost under his breath. “What does it mean? Benson never touched a drop of that vile stuff, did he?”
“He'd sooner drown himself,” retorted Hal, with spirit.
“Of course he would,” agreed Grant Andrews. “But what is the meaning of all this?”
“Oh, there's some queer, hocus-pocus business on foot,” muttered Hal, bitterly. “But I don't believe Jack feels much like telling us anything about it at present.”
In truth, Jack didn't seem inclined to conversation. He was too sore and dazed to feel like talking. He couldn't collect his ideas [pg 058] clearly. The most that he actually knew was that the pain in his head was tormenting.