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Submarine Boys for the Flag

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<h2 id="id00579" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER VII</h2> <h5 id="id00580">A LESSON IN SECURITY AND INFORMATION</h5> Despite the savageness of his utterance Millard continued to gaze thoughtfully, for a few moments, at the submarine boy's face. As the rascal gazed, however, a grayness came into his cheeks that, somehow, smote Captain Jack with secret terror. "I—I don't see how it can be helped," gasped Millard, at last, in an altered tone that came as another dash of ice water over the submarine boy. "Benson, I hate to do it. I'd hate to use a dog in such a way, but—but there's no help for it!" A long-drawn-out sigh, a still queerer look in his face, then the scoundrel broke forth again: "It's your own fault, after all, boy, and there's no help for it." "By and by I suppose you'll enlighten me as to what 'it' means?" hinted Jack, trying hard to bolster up a courage that, none the less, would ooze and drop. Millard's only answer was to bend over the boy and roll him somewhat in examining the prisoner's bonds. It was through this that Jack discovered what he had not known before—namely, that his wrists, besides being bound behind his back, were also lashed fast to something in the flooring. There was a queer little choke in Millard's breathing as he went out of the room and returned with a bushel basket of shavings. These he dumped on the floor, close to a wall. Then, again, he went out. When he returned he was carrying a can of coal-oil. The contents he poured over the shavings, then against the wall. Next, over the shavings, he heaped three or four newspapers. Jack Benson didn't ask questions. Millard went at it all in such a business-like way that the submarine boy felt the words sticking in his throat; they couldn't be uttered. Finally, when all else was ready, Millard took the lighted candle out of the candlestick. "This candle will burn for thirty minutes yet," guessed the wretch, noting its unburned length with the air of an expert "That will be time enough. Poor lad!" He set the lighted candle down on top of the papers, over the pile of oil-soaked shavings. It fitted nicely into a place that the wretch had made ready for it. Then, without a word, the long-legged one tip-toed softly over and bent beside the submarine boy. "Open your mouth," he ordered. Of course Captain Jack didn't propose to do anything of the sort. With one hand, however, Millard gripped the boy's nostrils, pressing tightly. Just a little later Jack had to open his mouth for air. "Thank you," mocked the other, and neatly shoved a handkerchief between the boy's jaws. This he tied in place, and rising, looked down upon a gagged foe. Then, with a last look over at the candle, the long-legged one darted from the room. Left alone, Jack Benson watched that candle on top of the prepared heap. His eyes gleamed with the fascination of terror. When that candle burned down to the right point it would set fire to the paper, and then—! Try as he would to bolster his grit, Captain Jack Benson found himself in a fearful plight. At first, he could only stare, with terror-dilated eyes, at that candle—ever burning just a slight fraction shorter! While the horror-laden moments were dragging by Jack heard a step on the stairs behind his head. Then he realized that some one was looking into the room. Then a voice spoke. It was Millard's, though scarcely recognizable on account of its huskiness. "It's a fearful thing to do, Benson, but—but I can't help it! If you only knew what it means to me to win!" Then followed a moment of utter silence. Jack could hear his own heart beating, as he fancied he could hear that of his persecutor. Then there was another sound, as though some light-weight metallic object had fallen to the floor. "Good-bye, old chap! I—I respect you for your calm grit—that's all I can say." There was the sound of a quick turn, then soft footsteps. Jack knew that Millard had fled. "He respects me for my 'calm grit'!" laughed Jack, grimly—almost hysterically. "Doesn't the scoundrel know that I'm all but frozen into the torpor of dread?" Then, just as suddenly, an anguished "oh!" broke from the boy's lips, to be followed, instantly, by a tremor of hope. For, except at the time when interrupted by Millard's return, the young submarine captain had been fighting savagely at the bonds behind his back. Now, he fancied, he heard or felt a single strand giving way. "I've got to get out of this quickly, if at all!" quavered the boy, staring with wavering eyes at the ever-shortening candle-bit. "There won't be anything left to do—except bear it—if I'm ten minutes longer at this all but hopeless task." After a few frenzied moments of struggle there was another "r-r-rip" behind him—close to his wrists. Now, young Benson fought with rage and frenzied strength. His gaze was ever toward the candle, burning lower. It seemed as if it must communicate its flame to the paper at any instant. There came another ripping sound. Captain Jack Benson, though he could not see, felt something giving around his wrists. Frantically he squirmed and twisted with his hands. Then, suddenly, his wrists fell apart—free! With an exulting throb of gratitude for this well-nigh unexpected boon, Benson forced himself up into a sitting posture. He was shaking, now, from sheer nervousness. Swiftly, tremulously, he felt in his pockets. "My long-legged friend never thought to take my knife—probably because he hadn't the slightest idea I'd be able to use it," thrilled the submarine boy, as he forced a blade open. It didn't seem to take an instant, now, to cut the cords and set his feet free. Jack staggered to his feet. The lighted candle had burned down, now, even more perilously close to the paper—but what did the submarine boy care now? At the worst, he could easily run from this house which, he felt certain, was untenanted save for himself. As soon as he could steady himself well enough, Benson bent and snatched up the burning candle from the tinder-like bed on which it stood propped. "Instead of destroying me," he chuckled, "this candle will now light me on my way out." At the doorway at the end of the room Jack Benson, by some strange chance, happened to remember that slight metallic sound of something falling to the floor while Millard was speaking. Now, Jack bent over, holding the candle to aid him in his hunt. Ah! There it was! Yet how utterly insignificant—nothing but a hairpin! "Trifles often lead to something big, though," muttered the submarine boy, dropping the hairpin into his pocket. "I've been too much around machinery to despise small things." Candle in hand, Jack quickly ascended through the rest of the house, after finding, in the lower hallway, a stout stick that he picked up. With this club he felt he had a weapon to be depended upon at need. But there was nothing in the rest of the little three-story house to throw any light upon the habits of Millard, or the place for which that worthy had departed. In one upper room Benson found a small mirror hung from a nail in the wall. In this same room was a small trunk, lid up and empty. Back to the basement Jack returned. At the rear he found a small yard. Beyond that a fence, with a gate in it. The gate was unlocked. On a nail at the edge of the gateway Jack found a fluttering fragment of gray veiling. "A woman has left here," thought Jack, holding the fragment of veiling in his hand. "Or else Millard got away disguised as a woman. That trunk may have held woman's apparel for the very purposes of such an escape." This rear gateway opened upon a long, narrow alley that led to a street beyond. Having satisfied himself on this point, Benson stepped back into the yard. "Hold on! Here's something that will help," muttered the boy, staring down curiously at the ground. It was the imprint of a foot in a wet spot on the ground. As Jack bent over it he saw the marks of diagonal criss-crossing such as is found in the soles of rubbers. "The print is a fresh one. Either Millard wore rubbers away, or some woman has been here who wore them," Jack concluded. Dropping his cudgel, since he would have no use for it, Benson made his way down the alley to the street beyond. At the corner stood a small grocery store, whose proprietor was in the doorway. "I wonder," began Jack, "whether you saw a woman came down out of this alley-way lately? A tall woman?" "About twenty minutes ago I saw a tall woman, in a gray dress and wearing a gray veil," replied the storekeeper. "Was she carrying anything?" "Some sort of a grip—a suit case, I guess." "Did you ever see the woman before?" persisted Jack. The storekeeper shook his head. "Which way did the woman go?" "I don't remember, particularly, but I think down that way," replied the grocer, pointing. Jack hurried along. It was a quiet part of the town. None of the people to whom he spoke within the next three or four minutes remembered having seen the tall, veiled woman in gray, though some "thought" they "might have." "I reckon," wisely decided Captain Jack Benson, "that I know just about enough to take my information to Lieutenant Ridder." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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