It was Hal Hastings's chance. As he darted forward he espied a serviceable-looking stick on the ground. He snatched it up with a single breathless swoop, then poised himself over the struggling fighters, stick uplifted.
Down came that slender cudgel, striking Dan a light blow squarely top of his head.
"O-o-ow! Help! Quit that!" screamed Dan Jaggers.
"Lie still, then," commanded Hal, sternly. "And let go of Jack, or I'll use this stick for I'm worth."
Brave enough while he thought he had a good fighting chance, Dan cowered under the menace of that club. He submitted to being rolled on his back, pleading:
"Don't club me! I'll be quiet."
"See that you are, then," ordered young Benson, kneeling on his opponent's chest. "Remember, Dan, that there are two of us. We mean to win, no matter how ugly a fight we have to put up."
"Want the gag that you threw away when you jumped up, Jack?" asked Hal, with a delighted grin.
"No; we don't need to gag him. Jaggers, roll over on your face, and don't you dare make any attempt to get up," ordered the submarine, boy, rising from his prostrate foe, while Hastings stood ready to use the stick.
Dan obeyed. Jack took the slim cudgel from, his chum, who, at a silent signal, slipped back and picked up some of the slashed cord. There was enough of it to accomplish the tying of Jaggers.