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Submarine Boys and the Middies

<h1>CHAPTER XVII: THE EVIL GENIUS OF THE WATER FRONT</h1> It was nearly eight in the evening when the three craft were snug at anchor. The bay was a small one, hardly worthy of the name. The only inhabited part of the shore thereabouts consisted of the fishing village known as Blair's Cove, a settlement containing some forty houses. Hardly had all been made snug aboard the “Farnum” when Jack, standing on the platform deck after the cadets had been transferred to the “Hudson” for the night, saw a small boat heading out from shore. “Is that one of the new submarine crafts?” hailed a voice from the bow of the boat. “Yes, sir,” Jack answered, courteously. No more was said until the boat had come up alongside. “I thought maybe you'd be willing to let me have a look over a craft of this sort,” said the man in the bow. He appeared to be about forty years of age, dark-haired and with a full, black beard. The man was plainly though not roughly dressed; evidently he was a man of some education. “Why, I'm mighty sorry, sir,” Captain Jack Benson replied. “But I'm afraid it will be impossible to allow any strangers on board during this cruise.” “Oh, I won't steal anything from your craft,” answered the stranger, laughingly. “I won't be inquisitive, either, or go poking into forbidden corners. Who's your captain?” “I am, sir.” “Then you'll let me come aboard, just for a look, won't you?” pleaded the stranger. Such curiosity was natural. The man seemed like a decent fellow. But Jack shook his head. “I'm sorry, sir, but I'm positive our owners wouldn't approve of our allowing any strangers to come on board.” “Had any trouble, so far, with strangers?” asked the man. “I didn't say that,” Jack replied, evasively. “But the construction of a submarine torpedo boat is a secret. It is a general rule with our owners that strangers shan't be allowed on board, unless they're very especially vouched for. Now, I hate to appear disobliging; yet, if you've ever been employed by anyone else, you will appreciate the need of obeying an owner's orders.” “You're under the orders of the boss of that gunboat?” asked the stranger, pointing to the “Hudson.” “On this cruise, yes, sir,” Jack nodded. “Maybe, if I saw the fellow in command of the gunboat, then he'd give me an order allowing me to come on board.” “I'm very certain the lieutenant commander wouldn't do anything of the sort,” Benson responded. The stranger gave a comical sigh. “Then I'm afraid I don't see a submarine boat to-night—that is, any more than I can see of it now.” “That's about the way it looks to me, also,” Jack answered, smiling. “Yet, believe me, I hate awfully to seem discourteous about it.” “Oh, all right,” muttered the stranger, nodding to the two boatmen, who had rowed him out alongside. “Good!” grunted Eph. “I'm glad you didn't let him on board, Captain. On this cruise our luck doesn't seem to run with strangers.” “It doesn't, for a fact,” laughed Jack Benson. “Hi, ho—ah, hum!” yawned young Somers, stretching. “It will be mine for early bunk to-night, I reckon.” At this moment a boat was observed rounding the stern of the “Hudson.” It came up alongside, landing a marine sentry. “Anybody on the 'Farnum' want to go ashore to-night?” hailed a voice from the gunboat's rail. “The shore boat will be ready in five minutes.” “I believe I would like to take just a run through the village,” declared Jack, turning to his chum. “Do you feel like a land-cruise with me, Hal?” “I think I'd better go,” laughed Hastings. “You seem to get into trouble when you go alone.” “All right, then. And, Eph since you're so sleepy, you can turn in as soon as you want. The boat will be under sufficient protection,” Jack added, nodding toward the marine slowly pacing the platform deck. Williamson was called too, but declared that he felt like turning in early. So, when the shore boat came, it had but two passengers to take from the submarine. There were a few shore-leave men, however, from the gunboat. “This boat will return to the fleet, gentlemen, every hour up to midnight,” stated the petty officer in charge, as Jack and Hal stepped ashore at a rickety little wharf. “Judging from what we can see of the town from here, we'll be ready to go back long before midnight,” Jack Benson laughingly told his companion. “All I want is to shake some of the sea-roll out of my gait,” nodded Hastings. “It surely doesn't seem to be much of a town.” By way of public buildings there turned out to be a church, locked and dark, a general store and also a drug-store that contained the local post-office. But the drug-store carried no ice cream or soda, so the submarine boys turned away. There was one other “public” place that the boys failed to discover at once. That was a low groggery at the further end of the town. Here two of the sailors who had come on shore leave turned in for a drink or two. They found a suave, black-bearded man quite ready to buy liquor for Uncle Sam's tars. Three-quarters of an hour later Jack and Hal felt they had seen about as much of the town as they cared for, when a hailing voice stopped them. “Finding it pretty dull, gentlemen?” “Oh, good evening,” replied Captain Jack, recognizing the bearded man whom he had refused admittance to the “Farnum.” “Pretty stupid town, isn't it, Captain?” asked the stranger, holding out his hand, which Jack Benson took. “As lively as we thought it would be,” Hal rejoined. “We just came ashore to stretch ourselves a bit. Thought we might lay a course to an ice-cream soda, too, but failed.” “These fishermen don't have such things,” smiled the stranger. “They are content with the bare necessities of life, with a little grog and tobacco added. Speaking of grog, would you care to try the best this town has, gentlemen?” “Thank you,” Jack answered, politely. “We've never either of us tasted the stuff, and we don't care to begin.” “Drop into the drug-store and have a cigar, then?” “We don't smoke, either, thank you,” came from Hal. “You young men are rather hard to entertain in a place like this,” sighed the stranger, but his eyes twinkled. “We are just as grateful for the intention,” Jack assured him. “Tell you what I can do, gentlemen,” proposed the stranger, suddenly. “I might invite you down to my shack for a little while, and show you my books and some models of yachts and ships that I've been collecting. I'm quite proud of my collection in that line. Won't you come?” Anything in the line of yacht or ship-models interested both of these sea-loving boys from the shipyard at Dunhaven. Jack graciously accepted the invitation for them both. “And, though I have no soda fountain,” continued the bearded one, “I can offer you some soft drinks. I always keep some about the place.” “How do you come to be living in a place like this, if I'm not too inquisitive?” queried Benson, as the three strolled down the street. “Doctor's orders,” replied the bearded one. “So I've rented the best old shack I could get here, down by the water. I spend a good deal of my time sailing a sloop that I have. Curtis is my name.” Jack and Hal introduced themselves in turn. Curtis's shack proved to be well away from the village proper, and down near the waterfront. A light shone from a window near the front door as the three approached the small dwelling. “I think I can interest you for an hour, gentlemen,” declared the bearded one, as he slipped a key in the lock of the door. He admitted them to a little room off the hallway, a room that contained not much beyond a table and four chairs, a side-table and some of the accessories of the smoker. “Just take a seat here,” proposed Curtis, “while I get some sarsaparilla for you. I'll be right back in a moment.” It was four or five minutes before Curtis came back, bearing a tray on which were three tall glasses, each containing a brownish liquid. “The stuff isn't iced, yet it's fairly cold,” the bearded one explained. “Well, gentlemen, here's to a pleasant evening!” Hal, who was thirsty, took a long swallow of the sarsaparilla, finding the flavor excellent. Jack drank more slowly, though he enjoyed the beverage. “If you don't mind,” suggested Curtis, “I will light a cigar. And say, by the way, gentlemen, what if we take a little walk down to my beach? Before showing you the models I spoke of, I'd like to have your opinion of the lines of my sloop.” “We'll go down and take a look with great pleasure,” Jack Benson agreed, rising. “And I'm glad, sir, that you're able to show us more courtesy than we were able to offer you to-night.” “Oh, that was all right,” declared their host, smiling good-humoredly. “Rules are rules, and you have your owners to please. No hard feelings on that score, I assure you.” Curtis led the way through a dark yard down to a pier. Moored there lay a handsome white sloop, some forty-two feet in length—a boat of a good and seaworthy knockabout type. “This is a sloop, all right,” Jack agreed, cordially. “Rather different from the lumbering fishing craft hereabouts.” “Oh, hah, yum!” yawned Hal, at which Curtis shot a quick glance at him. “Come on board,” invited Curtis, stepping down to the deck of the craft. “Let me show you what a comfortable cruising cabin I have.” “Hi, oh, yow!” yawned Hal, again. “Jack, I think I shall enjoy my rest to-night.” “Same case here,” agreed Benson, stifling a yawn that came as though in answer to Hal's. “I won't keep you long, gentlemen, if I am boring you,” agreed their host, amiably. “Now, I'll go below first and light up. So! Now, come down and take a look. Do you find many yacht cabins more comfortable than this one?” It was, indeed, a cozy place. Up forward stood a miniature sideboard, complete in every respect with glass and silver. In the center of the cabin was a folding table. There were locker seats and inviting looking cushions. The trim was largely of mahogany. On either side was a broad, comfortable-looking berth. “Just get into that berth and try it, Mr. Hastings,” urged the bearded one. “I—I'm afraid to,” confessed Hal, stifling another yawn. “Afraid?” “Very sure thing!” “Why?” “I'm—hah-ho-hum!” yawned Hal Hastings. “I'm afraid I'd—yow!—abuse your hospitality by going to sleep.” Jack Benson leaned against the edge of the opposite berth, feeling unaccountably drowsy. “Oh, nonsense,” laughed Curtis. “Just pile into that berth for a moment, Hastings, and see what a soft, restful place it is. I'll agree to pull you out, if necessary.” Not realizing much, in his approaching stupor, Hal Hastings allowed himself to be coaxed to stretch himself at full length in the downy berth. Almost immediately he closed his eyes, drifting off into stupor. “Why, your friend is drowsy, isn't he?” laughed the bearded one, turning to the submarine skipper. Jack Benson's own eyelids were suspiciously close together. “Why—what—ails you?” Curtis spoke in a low, droning, far-away voice that caused Jack Benson's upper eyelids to sink. Curtis stood watching him, in malicious glee, for some moments. Then, at last, he took hold of the young skipper. “Come, old fellow,” coaxed the bearded one, “you'll do best to join your friend in a good nap. Get up in the berth.” “Lemme alone,” protested the boy, thickly, feeling that he was being lifted. Jack struggled, partly rousing himself. “Come, get up into the berth. You'll be more comfortable there.” “Lemme alone. What are you trying to do?” demanded Jack, swinging an arm. Curtis dodged the light blow, then gripped Jack Benson resolutely. “Now, see here, young man,” hissed the bearded one, “I'm not going to have any more nonsense out of you. Up into the berth you go! Do you want me to hit you?” Another man thrust his head down the cabin hatchway, showing an evil, grinning face. “Got 'em right?” demanded the one from the hatchway. “Yes,” snapped the bearded one, then turned to give his attention to Jack Benson, who was putting up an ineffectual fight while Hal slumbered on. “Now, see here, Benson, quit all your fooling!” “You lemme up,” insisted the submarine boy, in a low, dull voice, though he swung both his arms in an effort to assert himself. “'M not goin' t' stay here. Lemme up, I say! 'M goin' back to—own boat.” “The submarine?” jeered the bearded man. “Yep.” “Guess again, son,” laughed Curtis, jeeringly. “You're not going back aboard the submarine to-night.” “Am so,” declared Benson, obstinately, though his tone was growing more drowsy every instant, and his busy hands moved almost as weakly as an infant's. “Listen, if you've got enough of your senses left,” growled the bearded men. “You're not going back to the 'Farnum'—neither to-night, nor at any other time during the next few months. You're bound on a long cruise, but not on a submarine boat. I am the captain here, and I'll name the cruise!” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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