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 clearly. The most that he actually knew was that the pain in his head was tormenting.
"I'll pick him right up in my arms and carry him," proposed Andrews. "I'll take him to Mr. Farnum's office. Then I'll get a doctor. We don't want much noise about this, or folks will be telling all sorts of yarns against Jack Benson and his drinking habits, when the truth is he's about the finest, steadiest young fellow alive!"
Just as Andrews was about to carry his purpose into action, however, an automobile turned the nearest corner and came swiftly toward them. In another instant it stopped alongside. It contained Mr. Farnum and his chauffeur, besides three naval officers.
"What's wrong, Andrews?" called the yard's owner. "Why, that's Jack
Benson! What has happened to him?"