"I think that very likely," Jack admitted. He had thrust his hands deep down into his trousers pockets, in order to restrain his very natural impulse to spring at the Frenchman and rain blows in the latter's face.
"Two or three days' work, let us say," continued M. Lemaire. "And, for that we will pay you handsomely—ten thousand dollars in the best money of your land!"
They halted, gazing at each other. For a few seconds Jack Benson did not dare trust himself to utter a word. When he did speak, it was to ask, calmly:
"M. Lemaire, who is your master?"
"My master?" repeated the Frenchman. "I do not understand you."
"Every dog, even a dirty one," thundered Captain Jack Benson, "has a master! Who's yours?"
M. Lemaire's face became livid in an instant. His hands working convulsively, he sprang at the young submarine captain.
Mlle. Nadiboff, snatching a riding whip from under her automobile coat, turned and ran toward them. The chauffeur snatched up a wrench, leaping out of the automobile.