Jack felt a little shiver. He had never been suspected of being a coward, yet he was willing to admit that he didn't want to feel a chunk of lead plowing its way through him.
"Last word to halt!" yelled the pursuer, in an ugly tone.
"Fire, then!" dared Jack Benson.
Crack! Whizz-zz! Chug! The weapon was discharged promptly. Jack, still in flight, heard the bullet whistle by him. Then it struck the sand, fifty feet ahead, throwing up a spurt of the fine particles.
"That was for a caution. The next shot will be to hit!" panted the pursuer.
"I wonder if you can do it?" Jack taunted backward over his shoulder.
There was method in the submarine boy's tactics. He hoped, by making the stranger angry, to spoil his aim.
Crack! The bullet sped by, fanning the fugitive's face. The close aim, however, had the reverse of the effect expected by the marksman. It roused all the submarine boy's anger. He might be hit, but he would stop, now, only if a bullet laid him low.
Two more shots sped after the fugitive. Their aim was too close for comfort, though not true enough to score a hit. Each of the shots sounded a bit further back, too.
"He's getting winded," gritted the running submarine boy. "With his long legs that chap ought to get over ground faster than I. The difference is that that fellow is out of condition, and my hard work keeps me about up to the mark of condition all the time. He—"