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Submarine Boys and the Middies

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<h1>CHAPTER VII: JACK FINDS SOMETHING “NEW,” ALL RIGHT</h1> Jack Benson was on his feet in an instant. An angrier boy it would have been hard to find. From overhead came the sound of a loud guffaw. “Oh, you infernal scoundrel!” raged the submarine boy, shaking his fist in the dark. “W'at am de matter wid yo', w'ite trash?” came the jeering query. “Let me get my hands on you, and I'll show you!” quivered Benson. “Yah! Listen to yo'! Yo' wait er minute, an' Ah'll show yo' a light.” Gr-r-r-r! Gr-r-r-r! That sound from overhead was not pleasant. Jack, in the few seconds that were left to him, could only guess as to the cause of the sounds. Then, some fifteen feet over his head, a tiny flame sputtered. This match-end was carried to the wick of the lantern that the yellowish guide had been carrying, and now the light illumined the place into which Jack Benson had fallen. That place was a square-shaped pit, with boarded sides. Up above, on a shelf of flooring, knelt the late guide, grinning down with a look of infernal glee. On either side of the mulatto stood a heavy-jowled bull-dog. Both brutes peered down, showing their teeth in a way to make a timid man's blood run cold. “Put those dogs back and come down here,” challenged Jack, shaking his fist. “Come down, and I'll teach you a few things, you rascal!” “Don' yo' shake yo' fist at me, or dem dawgs will sure jump down and tackle yo',” grinned the guide, gripping at the collars of the brutes, which, truly, showed signs of intending to spring below. Jack fell back, his hands dropping to his sides. Had there been but one dog, the submarine boy, with all his grit forced to the surface, might have chosen to face the brute, hoping to despatch it with a well-aimed kick. But with two dogs, both intent on “getting” him, young Benson knew that he would stand the fabled chance of a snow-flake on a red-hot stove. “Dat's right, gemmun, yo' keep cool,” observed the mulatto, mockingly. “You've decoyed me—trapped me here with a mess of lies,” flung back Captain Jack, angrily. “What's your game?” “Dis am a free lodgin' house—ho, ho, ho!” chuckled the late guide. “Ah's gwine gib yo' er place to sleep fo' de night. Yo' sho'ly must feel 'bleeged to me—ho, ho, ho!” “You lied to me about Sam Truax!” “Yeah! Ah done foun' dat was de name ob a gemmun in yo' pahty dat wasn't wid yo'. Truax do as well as any odder name—yah! Now, Ah's gwine leab yo' heah t' git a sleep. Ah'll toss down some blankets. 'Pose yo'se'f and gwine ter sleep, honey. Don't try to clim' up outer dat, or dem dawgs'll sho'ly jump down at yo'. Keep quiet, an' go ter sleep, an' de dawgs done lay heah an' jest watch. But don' try nuffin' funny, or de dawgs'll sho'ly bring trubble to yo'. Dem is trained dawgs—train' fo' dis business ob mine. Ho, ho, ho!” Mulatto and light vanished, but enraged, baffled, helpless Captain Jack could hear the two dogs moving about ere they settled down on the shelf of flooring overhead. “No matter how much of a liar that rascal is, he didn't lie to me about the dogs,” reflected Jack, his temper cooling, but his bitterness increasing. “They're fighting dogs, and one wrong move would bring them bounding down here on me—the two together. Ugh-gh!” After a few moments the mulatto reappeared with a light and tossed down three heavy blankets. “Now, Ah's gwine leave yo' fo' de night,” clacked the late guide. “Ef yo' done feel lonesome, yo' jes' whistle de dawgs down to yo'. Dey'll come!” While the light was still there Benson, in raging silence, gathered the blankets and arranged them. “Roll up one fo' a pillow, under yo' haid,” grinned the mulatto. “Dat's all right, sah. Now, good night, Marse Benson. Ef yo' feel lonesome, Marse Benson, jes' whistle fo' de dawgs. Dey'll come!” The light vanished while the mulatto's sinister words were ringing in the boy's ears. Would the dogs jump down? Jack knew they would, at the first false move or sound on his part. He huddled softly, stealthily, on the blankets, there in the darkness. As he lay there, thinking, Benson's sense of admiration gradually got to the surface. “Well, of all the slick man-traps!” he gasped. “I never heard of anything more clever. Nor was there ever a bigger idiot than I, to walk stupidly into this same trap! What's the game, I wonder? Robbery, it must be. And I have a watch, some other little valuables and nearly a hundred and fifty dollars in money on me. Oh, I'm the sleek, fat goose for plucking!” Lying there, in enforced stillness, Jack Benson, after an hour or so, actually fell asleep. A good, healthy sleeper at all times, he slumbered on through the night. Once he awoke, just a trifle chilled. He heard one of the dogs snoring overhead. Crawling under one of the blankets, Benson went to sleep again. “Hey, yo', Marse Benson. It am mawnin'. Time yo' was wakin' up an' movin' erlong!” It was the voice of the same mulatto, calling down into the pit. Again the rays of the lantern illumined the darkness. Both bull-dogs displayed their ferocious muzzles over the edge of the pit. Jack sat up cautiously, not caring to attract unfriendly interest from the dogs. “Ah want yo' to take off all yo' clothes 'cept yo' undahclothes, an' den Ah'll let down a string fo' yo' to tie 'em to,” declared the mulatto, grinning. “Yo' needn't try ter slip yo' wallet, nor nuffin' outer mah sight, cause Ah'll be watchin'. Now, git a hurry on, Marse Benson, or Ah'll done push dem dawgs ober de aidge ob dis flooring.” Jack hesitated only a moment. Then, with a grunt of rage, he began removing his outer garments. Down came a twine, to the lower end of which the boy made fast his garments, one after another. His money and valuables went up in the pockets, for the sharp eyes of the mulatto could not have been eluded by any amateur slight-of-hand. “Now, yo' cap an' yo' shoes,” directed the grinning monster above. These, too, Benson passed up at the end of the cord. The mulatto disappeared, leaving the two dogs still on guard. At last, back came the light and the yellowish man with it. “Yo' sho' is good picking, Marse Benson,” grinned the guide of the night before. “Yo' has good pin feathers. Ah hope Ah'll suttinly meet yo' again.” “I hope we do meet at another time!” Jack Benson flared back, wrathily. The cool insolence of the fellow cut him to the marrow, yet where was the use of disobeying a rascal flanked by two such willing and capable dogs? “Now, yo' jes' put dese t'ings on, Marse Benson, ef yo' please, sah,” mocked the mulatto, tossing down some woefully tattered, nondescript garments, and, after them, a battered, rimless Derby hat and a pair of brogans out at the toes. “I'll be hanged if I'll put on such duds!” quivered Jack. “Jes' as yo' please, ob co'se, Marse Benson,” came the answer, from above. “But, ef yo' don' put dem t'ings on, yo'll sho'ly hab ter gwine back ter 'Napolis in yo' undahclo's. An' yo's gwine back right away, too, so, ef yo' wants ter gwine back weahin' ernuff clo'es—” “Oh, well, then—!” ground out the submarine boy, savagely enough. He attired himself in these tattered ends of raiment. Had he not been so angry he must have roared at sight of his comical self when the dressing was completed. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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