At last, however, Hastings controlled his right hand enough to feel safe in slashing the cords. Jack, weak-kneed, stepped away from the stanchion, though he was still handcuffed.
"Thanks, old fellow. That's enough for the moment," said Jack, whose face was still ashen gray. "Miss Desmond—"
Both boys wheeled together to speak to that splendid young woman. They paused with their lips open. Grace Desmond could not have heard them; she had fainted, lying inert across one of the seats.
"She's a brick—a wonder—clean grit," broke from Jack, softly, admiringly.
When Josh Owen saw Hal drop through the manhole, and then saw the submarine's dive arrested, he realized that it was time for instant flight. Yet, as he turned to dash away, he found himself confronting the muzzle of a revolver held by the night watchman, who had been outside the yard at a little distance, but whom Josh's firing had brought back on the run.
"Throw up your hands, Owen. You're my prisoner," said the watchman, crisply.
But the ex-foreman much preferred being shot to taken. Flourishing his weapon, he turned, making a dash for the street gate.
Then it was that the foreman fired the two shots heard by the young people on the "Pollard."
Both shots missed. Thereupon, the watchman lowered his weapon and dashed after the fugitive.
Eph Somers, coming down the street to go aboard, heard, the shots.