"Now, pick up that boathook, and shove off, and we'll start," added the master of the little launch.
As Jack snatched up the boathook he caught, sight of Millard, three hundred yards away, just coming in sight on a run.
"You'd better get your engine going fast," warned Jack, "or that fellow headed this way will make trouble for us both. He's carrying a gun."
The skipper took just one look at Millard, who was racing along, pistol in hand, and was prepared to believe his present passenger. That little launch stole out of the cover under its reverse gear until the master of the craft thought himself far enough from shore for him to be out of range of Millard's weapon.
"Who is that feller?" asked the fisherman, when satisfied that he was at a safe distance and increasing it every instant.
"From the way he's dancing up and down, it looks as if he were crazy," laughed Jack, coolly.
"What's his particular specialty in craziness?" asked the master of the launch, looking shrewdly at the submarine boy.
"Now, see here," protested Benson, good humoredly, "as I understand it, you're paid to take me over to the Army tug—not to ask questions. Am I right?"
"You're right," nodded the fisherman, then surveyed the boy's uniform curiously.
"Your uniform looks like you was in the Navy?" suggested the man at the stern of the boat.