The Bungalow Boys on the Great Lakes
Date: 2022-04-21T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Great Lakes Region (North America) -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: The Bungalow Boys on the Great Lakes

Author: John Henry Goldfrap

Illustrator: J. Paul Burnham

Release date: April 21, 2022 [eBook #67898]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Hurst & Company

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BUNGALOW BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES ***

Its rays fell on the craft just in time to see Tom's limp form
being hauled on board.—Page 26.

THE BUNGALOW BOYS
ON THE GREAT LAKES

BY

DEXTER J. FORRESTER

AUTHOR OF "THE BUNGALOW BOYS," "THE BUNGALOW BOYS MAROONED
IN THE TROPICS," "THE BUNGALOW BOYS IN
THE GREAT NORTHWEST," ETC.

WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS
BY J. PAUL BURNHAM

NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1912,
BY
HURST & COMPANY

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. A Lake Huron "Hummer"

II. Lost Overboard

III. Tom Encounters Some Old Foes

IV. A Craft of Mystery

V. Tom Is in the Thick of It

VI. Along a Trail of Troubles

VII. Two Brave Lads at Bay

VIII. A Tour of Exploration

IX. "Fifty Dollars to the Man that Gets Them!"

X. A Trap of Nature's Making

XI. Out of the Dark

XII. Mr. Ironsides' Submarine—Huron

XIII. The Strangest Vessel on the Lakes

XIV. Off on a Long Chase

XV. "We've Struck a Submerged Wreck!"

XVI. In the Grasp of Calamity

XVII. Captain Rangler Re-appears

XVIII. A Man of Queer Manners

XIX. Within the Tower

XX. The Enemy's Victory

XXI. "There is a Way—I Mean to Try It"

XXII. A Bit of Madcap Daring

XXIII. Brains and Grit—A Combination Hard to Beat

XXIV. "Coward!"

XXV. What Will Happen Next?—Conclusion

The Bungalow Boys on the Great Lakes

CHAPTER I.

A LAKE HURON "HUMMER."

"Looks as if it might be blowing up for nasty weather, Tom."

Jack Dacre, the younger of the Bungalow Boys, spoke, as his head emerged from the engine room hatchway of the sixty-foot, motor-driven craft, Sea Ranger.

Tom nodded, and spun the spokes of the steering wheel ever so little. The Sea Ranger responded by heading up a trifle more into the seas, which were already growing threatening.

"I've been thinking the same thing for some time," he said presently. "If Alpena wasn't so far behind us, I'd turn back now."

"We can't be more than three miles off shore. Why not head in toward it?"

The elder Dacre boy shook his head.

"Don't know the coast," he said; "and it's a treacherous one."

The sky, cloudless but a short time before, was now heavily overcast. To the northwest, black, angry-looking clouds were banked in castellated masses. Their ragged edges would have shown a trained eye that, as sailors say, "there was wind behind them."

The waters of Lake Huron, recently sparkling under the bright sun, were now of a dull, leaden hue. The long water rows began to rise sullenly in heaving billows, over the crests of which the Sea Ranger plunged and wallowed.

"What are we going to do?" asked Jack presently, after an interval in which both brothers rather anxiously inspected the signs of "dirty weather."

"How are your engines working?" was Tom's way of answering with another question.

"Splendidly; as they have done ever since we left New York. I'm not anxious about them."

"Then we'll keep right on as we are. It would be risky to turn back to Thunder Bay now. The Sea Ranger is stanch. We saw to that before we chartered her. She will weather it, all right."

"I guess you're right. But I can see here and now that our camping cruise isn't going to be all fun. These Lake Huron storms have a bad reputation. When we were down off Florida, old Captain Pangloss said that they were as bad as anything he had encountered, even in the China seas."

"At any rate, that trip taught us a lot about boat-handling," said Tom, "and other things, too," he added, with a rather grim smile, as he recalled the stirring times they had had on the voyage referred to. Those adventures were all set forth in full in The Bungalow Boys Marooned in the Tropics.

"They sure did," agreed the younger Dacre. "The weather looked like this off Hatteras, before the time we beat out Dampier and Captain Walstein in the search for the sunken treasure-ship."

"And thereby helped to get large enough bank accounts to plan this trip," interpolated Tom. "By the way, I wonder whatever became of those two rascals after their escape from jail?"

"The papers said that they were supposed to have made their way to Canada. But nobody knows for certain."

While he spoke, the sea was growing more and more turbulent.

"I'll go below and rouse up Sandy and Professor Podsnap. We want to have everything secure and snug in the cabin before the storm hits us."

Jack found the professor and Sandy deep in a game of chess. One, at least, of the players, namely Sandy, was not sorry to have the game broken up. The professor had his hand poised above his bishop, and was about to make a move that would speedily have checkmated the Scotch youth, when Jack burst into the cabin.

They had been so interested in the game that they had not noticed the increased motion of the Sea Ranger. But, as Professor Podsnap leaped to his feet, when Jack rapidly made them aware of the situation, the bald-headed professor went sliding off to leeward across the cabin floor. An unusually heavy lurch had propelled him, and his speed was great.

To save his angular form from an ignominious tumble, he clutched at the cloth on the cabin table. As might have been expected, it did not prove a substantial support. Before either of the boys could interfere, the professor was in a heap on the floor, struggling blindly to extricate himself from the folds of the drapery which enveloped him. Struggling to check their laughter, the boys rescued him. But their subdued mirth broke into a loud shout as they beheld the professor's countenance. A bottle of ink had been standing on the table, and its contents were now spilled in black rivulets all over the professor's face. His bony features fairly streamed with the black fluid, while his spectacles hung suspended from one ear, in a most undignified manner.

He gazed about him in a bewildered fashion, as he scrambled to his feet. He made such a comical sight that the boys, in spite of their respect for his learning and age, could no longer check their merriment at the ludicrous figure, and they laughed till the tears ran down their cheeks, only stopping to gasp out apologies and then go off into more paroxysms of mirth.

"The sea—as someone has observed—is no respecter of persons," observed the professor, wiping the ink in long smudges with his pocket handkerchief.

"Of parsons, sir?" inquired Sandy.

"Of persons," said the professor solemnly.

"Which reminds me," said Jack, controlling his laughter and rapidly describing to the professor and Sandy the condition of things outside. They at once set to work securing everything movable. The professor didn't even take time to clean his face.

In the meantime, Jack had returned to the deck, passing through the engine room on his way. The Sea Ranger was driven by a powerful forty-horsepower, six-cylinder, gasolene engine. The boy paused only to ascertain that everything was in good order before he rejoined Tom, who stood on a sort of bridge amidships.

Even in the short time he had been below, the weather had noticeably roughened. It was almost dark.

"What time is it?" inquired Jack, as he gained Tom's side. The other drew out his watch.

"Only a little after five. But it's getting as dark as if it were three hours later."

"It certainly is. We are in for a hummer, all right."

"Don't make any mistake about that."

The rising wind began to scream about the laboring craft. Whitecaps flecked the lead-colored waves. The sky was overshadowed by a dark canopy of clouds.

Across the tempest-lashed waters, Tom, by straining his eyes, could manage to make out a dark point of land.

"That ought to be Dead Fish Point," he observed to Jack. "But I couldn't be sure unless I saw the light."

"What kind of a light is it?" asked Jack.

"White and red, in one-minute flashes, I looked it up on the chart before we left Thunder Bay."

"Well, they ought to light up now. It's dark enough," opined Jack. "By the way," he went on, "wasn't it from that lighthouse that they drove off the gang that has been wrecking vessels by displaying false lights?"

"Yes. The men visited the light just as an increased force of lighthouse keepers had been put on, owing to the number of wrecks that have happened recently from the operations of this gang. They were driven off. But they had a swift tug and escaped. The authorities have been looking for them since."

"If the newspapers are right, it is the same outfit that has been operating on all the Great Lakes."

"Yes. It's a new and up-to-date method of piracy, as the police claim. The gang engaged in it wrecks vessels by means of changing or extinguishing lights, and then raids the cargo. It is dastardly business!"

"Well, I should say so!"

At this point the professor and Sandy came on deck.

"Hoot mon!" exclaimed the Scotch youth, "it's as dark as an unco' dark tunnel."

"It resembles midnight," put in the professor, who had, by this time, removed the traces of his encounter with the ink bottle.

The four, who were the only ones on board the Sea Ranger, stood side by side on the bridge, holding tightly to the hand-rail to avoid being thrown off their feet.

"D'ye ken if it'ull get wurss?" asked Sandy presently.

"It will get worse before it gets better," was Tom's pithy rejoinder.

The Sea Ranger had set out from New York three weeks before. Her destination was a small island situated in the Mackinac Straits, called Castle Rock Island. The trip was in the nature of a holiday outing following the Bungalow Boys' trying experiences with the Chinese smugglers, as related in The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest.

Mr. Chisholm Dacre, the Bungalow Boys' uncle, with the mystery of whose life the first volume of this series—The Bungalow Boys—was concerned, had decided, after some persuasion, to allow the lads to go. It had been a trip which they had often longed to take. Mr. Dacre and the parents of Sandy MacTavish, whose father was a wealthy importer, agreed that a vacation cruise would do the lads no harm after their really trying experiences in the hands of Simon Lake.

The Sea Ranger had, therefore, been chartered, being a suitable craft for the expedition. Mr. MacTavish, who had a partial claim to Castle Rock Island, had permitted the boys to make it their rendezvous. They meant to use it as a sort of headquarters during their stay on the Great Lakes.

Well provisioned, and manned by as happy a crew as ever left New York harbor, the Sea Ranger had set out on her long trip through the Hudson River and through the canals, to Buffalo. From Buffalo, they voyaged by easy stages to Detroit, and thence to Port Huron. Till that afternoon when they had started on the last "leg" of their cruise, from Alpena, on Thunder Bay, they had not encountered any but ordinary incidents of travel. Now, however, it looked as if they were going to have an unpleasant change. But all the lads were adventurous and daring, and the prospect of a lively blow did not scare them.

A word of explanation is necessary in regard to Professor Podsnap's presence on the Sea Ranger. Two days before she had sailed from New York, the professor, whom the boys and Mr. Dacre had rescued from a drifting raft in Florida waters, appeared at the lads' home. He was about to start out on an expedition in search of Indian relics. By a strange chance, Lake Huron was to form part of his hunting ground. Mr. Dacre, deeming it a good thing to have an elder person along with the boys, had responded to the professor's somewhat broad hints by inviting him to join his nephews. As for the boys, they respected the professor's learning, and had a genuine liking for him, even if his eccentric ways did, at times, amuse them.

And now, what had promised to be a tame voyage, suddenly became fraught with excitement.

"Hold hard, everybody!" cried Tom suddenly.

He had seen a white wall of water sweeping down toward the Sea Ranger. The full fury of the storm was about to burst upon them.

"Here she comes!" yelled Jack, as the howling wind rushed down on them as if it would rend them apart.

This was the beginning of a storm which endured through the night, and which was to have a curious influence on the strange events which lay in the Bungalow Boys' future.

CHAPTER II.

LOST OVERBOARD!

"This is the worst yet!"

Tom fairly shouted the words at Jack, who stood by him on the bridge of the storm-tossed Sea Ranger. The younger lad had just come from below, where he had deluged the engines with oil. He had also gone over them carefully, although the way the little craft was pitching made the job a difficult one. But Jack knew that the safety of the boat might depend on the way the engines kept at work.

"I never saw anything like it," yelled Jack, forming his hands into a funnel to make his voice carry. "Is it letting up at all?"

"Not a bit. It is worse, if anything."

Tom peered into the gloom ahead. But he could see nothing but angry breakers, their white tops whipped off by the furious wind and sent scattering as they formed. Both boys wore oilskins and sou'westers. The spray had drenched them till their garments shone in the gleam of the binnacle lamp.

"Better switch on the side and head lights," observed Tom presently.

He turned a button, and the red port light and its green companion on the starboard side were presently gleaming out. Above them, on the short mast with which the Sea Ranger was equipped, there beamed a white light, and another lantern of the same variety now shone out astern. All were lighted by electricity, furnished from a dynamo in the engine room, so that no matter how hard the wind blew, or how high the spray flew, there was no danger of their being extinguished.

"I feel a little better now," said Tom, after a while. "There's less danger of anything running into us in this smother. What are the professor and Sandy doing?"

"Trying to get a cup of hot coffee, but not succeeding very well. There's too much motion below, to stand still without gripping on to something."

"Are we keeping a straight course?"

It was Jack who spoke, after another interval in which the wind howled and the waves arose still more menacingly.

"As straight as I can steer her in this. I tell you, it's hard work to hold the wheel at all."

Indeed, every time a wave buffeted the Sea Ranger's rudder, it appeared as if the steering wheel was about to be jerked out of Tom's hand. But the elder Dacre boy possessed muscles well-hardened by all kinds of athletic games, and he stubbornly held the laboring craft to her course, despite the storm.

"I'll go below and oil up again," announced Jack presently.

He clawed his way across the bridge and vanished into the engine room. It was a wonderful contrast down there, in the warm, dry motor room, with the brightly polished machinery, working and moving in as rhythmic and unconcerned a fashion as if it was a summer's afternoon without. Incandescent globes made the place as bright as day, and the brass and steel flashed as it rose and fell with hardly any noise.

Oil-can in hand, Jack went his rounds. He poked the long spout in here and there, and then paused to wipe his hands on a bit of waste.

"I wish we were out of this," he was saying. "I wish we——"

There came a sudden, inexplicable jar throughout the whole structure of the Sea Ranger. Jack was flung flat on his back. The engines began to roar and race furiously. Every beam and rivet in her frame seemed to vibrate.

"Something terrible has happened," was the thought that flashed through the lad's mind, as he picked himself up.

He rushed out on deck as soon as he could collect his scattered senses. The wind was still screaming angrily, and the riotous sea was leaping all about the Sea Ranger.

But above the turmoil of the storm, Jack caught a startling cry that came through the darkness.

"Help!"

"Tom's voice!" exclaimed the lad.

He stumbled across the heaving deck and rushed up the two steps that led to the bridge where he had left his brother at the wheel. His pulses were throbbing wildly. The next moment, he, too, uttered a cry.

The bridge was vacant! Tom had vanished!

"Help! Help!"

The shout came once more. But it was fainter this time. Jack gazed about him despairingly. Tom was overboard, that much was certain. But how had it happened? How——?

"Put your helm over there!" roared a voice out of the blackness—a harsh, hoarse voice, that cut the storm like a vessel's siren.

Jack, only half-conscious of what he was doing, spun the spokes over. He was just in time. Dead ahead of their craft a larger vessel loomed up for an instant. She carried no lights, and a glimpse was all Jack had of her. But it gave him a clue as to what had occurred. In the darkness they must have collided with the lightless craft, and only his quickness in getting the helm over had averted a second collision, which might have proved disastrous.

"What is it? What has happened?" came a voice behind him.

It was the professor. The binnacle light shone on his gaunt, alarmed features. Close behind him pressed Sandy.

"Hoots, toots!" exclaimed the Scotch lad. "What was the gr-r-r-r-and bo-o-omp?"

"We collided with a vessel without lights," gasped Jack, "and—and——" his voice choked up, "Tom's gone."

"Gone!" exclaimed the professor. "Overboard, you mean?"

Jack mournfully replied in the affirmative. But he launched into action, too.

The switch that controlled the Sea Ranger's powerful searchlight was handy to the wheel. A quick twist of his wrist, and a white shaft of light from the powerful reflector cut through the night like a scimitar of flame.

With his hand on the controlling lever, Jack swept the beams hither and thither through the blackness. In the meantime, Sandy had cut loose one of the two patent buoys that were lashed to the little craft's bridge. He cast it out from the Sea Ranger's side with a powerful impetus.

As it struck the water, the dampness reached the bottle of chemicals attached to the life-saving contrivance. Instantaneously a dull, ghostly glare lit up the surrounding waves. The light was blue and uncanny, and rendered the scene still more disheartening. As the light struck the tossing waves, it turned them to a steely, unearthly bluish hue.

But if Tom were swimming anywhere near at hand he would be able to see the buoy and strike out for it.

"Look! Look there!" cried the professor, suddenly pointing off into the blue glare of the chemical buoy.

The others hastily glanced in the direction indicated, and, for a second, they could see a head bobbing about on the wave crests.

"Turn the ship ar-oond!" bellowed Sandy.

"I daren't. If we got into the trough of those seas, we'd be swamped in an instant."

Jack spoke the truth. To have attempted to turn the Sea Ranger in the sea that was running might have meant disaster, swift and certain.

"There comes the other craft!" cried Jack suddenly.

As he spoke, he saw a large tug, pitching and heaving fearfully in the heavy sea, come wallowing into the circle of light cast by the chemical buoy. Several men were on her decks. Jack could see that one of them held a line, which he threw out toward the bobbing head on the wave crests.

With the idea of aiding the men on the tug in their work, Jack switched the searchlight over toward them. Its rays fell on the craft just in time for those on board the Sea Ranger to see Tom's limp form being hauled on board.

The brilliant rays of the searchlight lit up the faces of Tom's rescuers as plain as day. As it fell on the wild, dripping countenances of the tug-boat men, Jack gave a sudden start.

"Great Scott!" he burst out. "Can it be possible?"

"Hoots! Can what be possible, mon?" queried Sandy.

"Why, look! Look there!"

"At what, pray? I see that they've rescued poor Tom."

"No—I mean look at that man—the one there by the pilot-house. And the other beside him!"

"What in the name of the haunted kirk of Alloway are ye speekin' aboot, noo'?" inquired the Scotch boy.

"Why, those men. It's Dampier and Captain Walstein, just as sure as we are on this bridge—and—and Tom is in their power!"

CHAPTER III.

TOM ENCOUNTERS SOME OLD FOES.

"Let us thank Providence he is saved."

It was the professor who spoke. His words made a deep impression upon Jack. After all, it might only have been his fancy. It seemed like a wild dream to imagine that Dampier and Walstein could have——

A sudden deluge of brilliant light encompassed those on the bridge of the tossing Sea Ranger. It was the searchlight from the hitherto lightless tug. For an instant the brilliant effulgence bathed them, and then it vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

While they were still wondering what could have been the reason of the sudden illumination, there was a crash right above Jack's head, and a shower of glass fell about him. At the same instant, above the screaming of the storm, could be heard the sharp report of a firearm of some kind.

The men on the tug, for some inscrutable reason, had seen fit to shiver the Sea Ranger's searchlight with a bullet.

"It wasn't any mistake of mine," flashed out Jack; "nobody but Dampier or Walstein would have been guilty of such a trick."

Evidently those on the tug were not anxious to be observed. The mere fact that they risked being abroad without lights on such a night showed that. The shivering of the Sea Ranger's searchlight only added emphasis to the mysterious character of the craft.

"Let us pursue them," urged the professor.

"Yes, let's get after them," echoed Sandy. "Puir Tom is in bad hands, I'm thinking."

"How on earth are we going to pursue them?" gasped out Jack, whose pulses were throbbing with indignation, "even if we could sight them in the darkness, they are faster than we."

"That is so," agreed the professor glumly, "and what is worse, they must have recognized us."

The professor, as we have hinted before, had been with the boys on that memorable cruise to tropic waters, when Dampier and Walstein very nearly succeeded in marooning the Dacre party and stealing their treasure recovered from a sunken galleon. He, as well as the boys, knew the desperate character of the two men.

"All we can do is to keep as nearly as possible in this spot all night," advised Jack; "then, as soon as daylight comes, the storm may abate, and we can take some action."

And so it was arranged. Leaving the wheel to Sandy, who was a muscular youth, Jack dived below to attend to the engines, which he had neglected for some time. Luckily, however, the machinery was working smoothly. The professor remained with Sandy on the bridge, doing what he could to help in controlling the vessel through the fury of the night.

Somehow the long hours of darkness passed away, and daylight came. The sunrise was yellow and sickly, breaking through ragged clouds. A chilly wind swept across the lake, but the backbone of the storm was broken.

But, as Jack had feared deep down in his heart, on all the expanse of leaden, rolling water, there was no sign of another craft. The Sea Ranger was alone in the desolate scene. A hasty examination had shown that she had suffered no material damage in the collision. Some paint was scraped off, but that was all.

Sandy got breakfast, which they ate with faint hearts. Jack, for his part, could hardly swallow more than a few mouthfuls of bacon and bread and gulp down a cup of coffee. His mind was actively busied with plans to rescue his brother from the hands of men he knew to be unscrupulous, clever and revengeful.

"It's hardly likely that they'll neglect such a chance to get even on us for sending them to jail and recovering the treasure," thought Jack, with a sigh that was almost a groan.

After a hasty meal, he announced his plans. A consultation of the chart had shown them to be about opposite—so far as Jack could judge—a place called Rockport. The others heartily agreed with his determination, which was to head in to that place, and, by the use of the telegraph and the assistance of the police of the town, to get on the track of the mysterious tug which had vanished with Tom.

While the Sea Ranger is cutting through the seas toward her hastily determined destination, let us see what had become of Tom on board the tug that carried no lights.

"Wonder where under the sun I can be?" was Tom's first thought, as he opened his eyes.

He had swooned from shock and immersion immediately after he had been dragged from the water by the crew of the tug, and had no clear recollection of anything that followed his being knocked overboard when the tug and the Sea Ranger collided.

But it was plain enough to him, on awakening, that he was in a place entirely strange, and of which he had no previous recollection.

He lay in a rough bunk on a pile of none too clean blankets. The walls of the small room were bare, but a round port light and the motion of the tug told him that he was out on the water.

The boy was striving to marshal his thoughts, when the sudden sound of voices struck on his ears. They seemed to come from an adjoining cabin. Tom listened, idly at first, but before long he was shocked into the keenest attention. It was evident that the conversation related to him and his companions of the Sea Ranger. With his senses vibrantly on the alert, he drank in every word that he could catch.

No doubt, the men who were talking so freely thought that the boy was still in a state of coma, for they took no trouble to lower their tones. As Tom listened, a vague sense of having heard at least two of the voices somewhere before stole over him. He could not recall where, at first, but suddenly he caught the name "Dampier," and a moment later "Walstein." The identity of the familiar voices was thus instantly revealed to him as by a flash of lightning.

"I tell you," were among the first words that struck Tom's attention, "that we've run into the biggest stroke of luck yet."

"Then you don't intend to throw the brat overboard, as he deserves?"

In the light of what he heard later, Tom identified this amiable proposal as coming from Walstein.

"Throw him overboard! Why, my dear fellow, I have nothing so crude in mind," came Dampier's sharp, rather fastidious tones. "If we use him rightly, we can make a pile of money with this lad."

"How do you propose to go about it?"

The question came from a third speaker. For the sake of clearness, it may be said here that he was Captain Jeb Rangler, the skipper of the tug, and a man whose character was of the worst.

"Simple enough," rejoined Dampier easily. "His uncle is rich. He was so before they stole the treasure of the sunken galleon away from us."

"That's pretty cool cheek," thought Tom to himself, as he lay listening; "as if the rascals didn't try all sorts of roguery to obtain it from the rightful discoverers."

"Ah; I see what you mean," came in Walstein's rumbling, hoarse tones, "you think we can get a ransom for him?"

"You've caught the idea. I should say that old Chisholm Dacre would give a good bit of money to have his nephew back safe and sound. Especially if he knew into whose hands he had fallen."

There was a laugh, in which all three joined, at this. Tom felt a shudder run through him.

"This is a nice nest of ruffians," he thought to himself. But the voices went on, and he eagerly resumed his listening.

"You've got the head after all, Dampier," rumbled Captain Walstein's heavy bass voice. "I wish we could have got the others, too."

"We might have, only it was too risky to take a chance on attacking their craft."

Tom hailed this as a bit of good news. It showed him that what he had half-feared, namely, the loss of the Sea Ranger in the collision, was no longer to be dreaded.

"Yes; we can't afford to take any more chances," muttered Captain Rangler gloomily. "That last one almost finished us. I don't like the idea of having the authorities so close on our heels."

"We've got to put in for more coal, too," came Walstein's voice.

"Oh, well, there's no danger of the tug being identified," laughed Dampier defiantly. "At Alpena and at Dead Fish Point lighthouse, she was a black and green craft named the War Eagle. Now she is changed to a slate-colored tug named the Flyaway. Jove! that's a good name, too," he chuckled.

A great light broke upon Tom. So this was the mysterious tug for which the authorities had been searching? But, from what he had heard, the gang in control of her had disguised her beyond recognition, and intended to keep on with their evil trade of ship-wrecking.

"Well, I'm going to head in toward the coast," he heard Captain Rangler say presently. "We've only got enough coal for a few hours."

The voices died away, as the three rose and left the adjoining cabin. But their conversation, brief as it had been, had shown Tom several things. Not the least among these was the fact that he was in one of the most serious predicaments of his life. The reflection that, not his own fault, but a series of extraordinary coincidences had thrown him into his perilous position, failed to console him.

"I might just as well have been hurled into a den of hungry tigers," thought Tom to himself, with a rueful attempt at humor.

The door-latch rattled and the portal was flung open at this juncture. Without waiting to see who his visitor might be, Tom flung himself from his sitting posture down among the blankets. It did not suit his plans that the men in whose power he was should realize that he knew at least a part of their rascally plans concerning him.

CHAPTER IV.

A CRAFT OF MYSTERY.

Tom, lying quiet amid the blankets, heard some one cross the cabin and come to a pause so close to him that he could hear the man's heavy breathing.

"Wake up, there, Tom Dacre," the man said.

The lad did not move, and the command was repeated in a louder tone. This time Tom, cleverly imitating the gapings and vacant expression of one just aroused from sleep, opened his eyes.

He had no difficulty in recognizing the features of Captain Walstein, even though a long growth of reddish beard now flourished on the lower part of his face. The man's cap was shoved back, and his leonine head of bristling, light-colored hair showed as prominently as ever. His features were heavier and more floridly colored than when Tom had seen him last, but that was the only difference, except that his costume was a rough one,—the ordinary garb of a Great Lake tug-boatman, in fact.

Close behind him, as he entered the cabin had been Dampier. He had paused at the door, to watch events, in the furtive manner that habit had made second nature to him. As Tom appeared to awaken from a sound sleep, however, he, too, came forward. His snake-like eyes, set like two glittering, coal-black specks in his sallow face, gleamed as they met Tom's frank gaze.

"Well," said Walstein, after a pause which Tom did not break, "ain't you surprised to see us?"

"Ye-es," struck in Dampier, in his soft voice, "it must be quite a shock to you to encounter old friends."

"So far as friends are concerned, we'll leave that out," spoke up Tom boldly, "and the surprise part of it is an unwelcome one, I'm sure."

"As you'll see a good deal of us for the succeeding few weeks, you'd better make up your mind to keep a civil tongue in your head," snorted Walstein.

"I keep a civil tongue, as you call it, for those I consider my equals and superiors," said Tom; "neither of you come in that class."

"So-o, my young fighting cock," whistled Dampier softly, "I reckon we'll have to clip your wings a bit. Aren't you grateful to us for pulling you out of the water when all your friends drowned?"

From what he had overheard of the men's conversation, Tom knew that this latter statement was an untrue one. However, he did not contradict it.

"You mean that the Sea Ranger is sunk!" he exclaimed, in a voice into which he managed to put a good deal of shocked amazement.

"That's right," said Walstein, rubbing his hands. "We ran into her and sank her last night, and saved you."

"I'm surprised at that," declared Tom. "I recollect your saying before you were sent to prison for your actions in the tropics, that you'd like to wring all our necks."

"Well, it suited us to save you, anyhow," retorted Walstein. "Where were you going in that craft?"

"That can't matter much to you since she is sunk," parried Tom. "The question is, what are you going to do with me?"

Dampier grinned unwholesomely.

"Oh, it's really too early to tell you that yet," he said, "but before you get free again, we mean to have back a good part of that treasure you and your uncle robbed us of."

"That you tried to rob us of, you mean," said Tom, flushing angrily.

"Well, have it anyway you like it," said Walstein, in his rumbly, throaty tones. "I just want to tell you this, though, that you are in our power, and it will do you no good to try to get away till we want you to."

"That will depend," rejoined Tom.

"Depend on what, pray?"

The question came from Dampier.

"On whether I see a chance to get away or not," replied Tom.

Walstein muttered something about "taking the impudence out of the brat," but Dampier laid a hand on his arm. Then he spoke with extraordinary vehemence.

"See here, Tom Dacre," he hissed, coming quite close, and shaking one long, yellow finger almost in Tom's face, "I hate you. Captain Walstein hates you, too. We've got good reason to, as you know. We're going to get even with you, and get good and even, too."

Before Tom could reply they both left the cabin, leaving the lad in a very unenviable frame of mind. His case looked hopeless, and whatever might have been the intentions of Walstein and Dampier when they entered, they had left again without giving Tom any clue as to what his fate was to be.

Before long, he grew tired of lying still, and got out of the bunk. He was in his shirt and trousers, which were still damp, but his coat was flung down on a nearby chair. Slipping it on, he made for the door of the cabin.

But he had hardly got it open before a gruff voice warned him to "Get back in there, if you know what's good for you." A hulking big tug-boat man stood outside the door. He was evidently stationed there to prevent any attempt to escape on the part of the prisoner. Poor Tom felt that the blockade was quite effectual.

There followed a dreary hour, in which it began to be borne in on the lad that he was exceedingly hungry and thirsty as well. He opened the door once more. The same sailor was on guard.

"Say, don't I get something to eat?" queried Tom pleasantly, in response to the man's growl to "Get back."

"Dunno, an' dun't care," grunted the sailor sullenly.

But Tom's appeal bore fruit, for half an hour later another sailor entered with a tray, on which was coffee, fruit, and a big dish of ham and eggs.

"Well, they don't intend to starve me, anyhow," said Tom, as his eyes fell on this unusual fare for tugboatmen to serve. He fell to heartily, and ate everything before him. So hungry had he been that it was not till the conclusion of his meal that he found leisure to examine the elaborate knife and fork that had been handed him to eat with. He gazed at the richly chased tableware with some interest now, however. It bore a name stamped on both knife and fork.

"S. S. DETROIT CITY."

That was what Tom read. The words caused his pulses to bound. He was actually then, as the overheard conversation had led him to expect, on board the mysterious wreckers' tug that the police of every big lake city were searching for. He recalled reading of the wreck of the Detroit City—a lake passenger steamer,—on a bitter February night. The craft had been lured to her fate—it afterward proved—by lights that had been tampered with.

"And these are the rascals into whose power I have fallen," gasped Tom, his eyes fixed on the bits of tableware which bore the name of the ill-fated craft.

Soon after, Walstein and two sailors entered the cabin. Under the leonine-headed seaman's direction, the sailors ordered Tom to thrust his hands into a pair of rusty and antique-looking handcuffs. His legs, also, were pinioned. This done, he was borne through the door and along the deck, to another doorway. Then his conductors—or rather jailers—conveyed him down a steep flight of metal steps and through the boiler room of the tug, into a dark, ill-smelling hole, suffocatingly hot.

Into one corner of this place they flung him.

"I guess you can howl yourself sick in there, and no one will hear you while we're at the dock," chuckled Walstein brutally, as he went out, slamming the bulkhead door behind him.

Soon after the vibratory motion of the engines ceased, and Tom could hear shouts and tramplings on deck. He guessed they were making fast to some dock, but where their stopping place was, he had, of course, no means of knowing.

In spite of Walstein's words, Tom did shout. He yelled and cried out for help till his throat was sore and cracked, and his voice a mere whisper. But no help came to the dark, stuffy place in which he had been flung.

CHAPTER V.

TOM IS IN THE THICK OF IT.

Tom had no way of gauging how long it was he lay in the pitchy darkness, before there was a scraping and a sliding sound, and a sort of trap-door in the deck above him was opened.

He was still wondering what this might portend, when the lip of a metal chute was suddenly projected into the opening, and without warning a shower of coal started to pour into the place, which, Tom now saw, was an empty coal bunker.

The boy shouted and halloed at the top of his voice, but it was some time before anybody appeared. By the time they did, the avalanche of coal threatened to overwhelm poor Tom, and his position was anything but enviable.

At length, however, a face was poked over the edge of the hole, and Tom, to his great relief, heard a voice shout:

"Stop that coal a minute. There's a boy down in here."

The man, or rather youth, who had shouted this, swung himself down into the bunker the next instant, and despite the grime on his face, Tom recognized an old acquaintance.

"Jeff Trulliber!" he gasped.

The son of the chief of the Sawmill Valley gang of counterfeiters was equally astonished.

"Why, it's Master Dacre!" he exclaimed, starting back in astonishment.

"That's who it is," rejoined Tom, with a rueful grin. "I want you to help me, Jeff. But first tell me if any of the crew of this craft are about."

"Not one of them. The skipper and two other chaps, who seemed to be his cronies, went ashore some time ago, and, as soon as they were gone, the crew left, too. I guess they are all carousing. But what under the sun——"

"Never mind questions now, Jeff. I want you to set me loose. See if there is a cold chisel and hammer in the engine room, and you can soon get this unornamental jewelry off me."

"I'll do that," responded Jeff eagerly.

Tom indicated the door leading from the bunker into the engine room, and Jeff, after rummaging about in there a while, located the required implements. In a very few minutes, for the irons that confined his limbs were old and rusty, Tom was free.

While they were hastening from the boat, Tom told Jeff rapidly as much as he chose of his story, and then it was his turn to ask questions.

It will be recalled that the last time we saw Jeff was when the canoe, in which he was trying to escape with Dan Dark, was upset in the lake opposite the Maine bungalow. Tom's heroic rescue of the lad, just as he was about to be sucked into the old lumber flume, will also be recalled by readers of The Bungalow Boys, the first volume of this series.

His rescue from a tragic death had proved the turning point in Jeff Trulliber's life. He had recalled the fact that he had an uncle in Michigan who had long disowned himself and his disreputable father. Jeff had sought and found this relative and obtained his forgiveness, and had been placed at work in the coal yard which was one of his uncle's properties. From workman he had rapidly risen to foreman, such was his application and ability. He was genuinely glad to be able to do a service for the lad who had risked so much for him.

"What place is this?" inquired Tom, as Jeff concluded his story, amidst Tom's congratulations.

"Rockport, Michigan. It is quite a town."

"Is there a police force here?" inquired Tom.

"A finely organized one. I see what is in your mind. You want to report the character of this craft and her crew to the authorities. I don't blame you. Tell you what we do—I'll go uptown with you. We can get there and back before the rascals that own the tug can return. I'll tell my men to delay in coaling her, so that even if that outfit does come back, they cannot get away."

"That's a good idea, Jeff. Let's go at once."

Rockport, in Jeff's phrase, proved to be "quite a town." The wharves, at one of which the tug lay, were numerous, and lumber yards and factories extended all along the water front. Quite a lot of lake steamers and smaller craft lay at them, giving the place a busy, bustling appearance.

But, not stopping to waste time on surveying the lake front of the town, Tom and his new ally set out at a good pace for the police station.

In the meantime, Captain Rangler, Dampier and Walstein were making their way back to the tug from the main part of the city where they had been negotiating some purchases of supplies.

As they emerged from a cross street near the water front, their conversation was concerning Tom. Captain Rangler was just remarking, with a grin, that as soon as the letter to Chisholm Dacre was written, they could make for a certain rendezvous of theirs on an island, and wait "for the coin," when Walstein suddenly gave an exclamation, and pulled his companions into a convenient doorway.

"What the dickens—" began Dampier, startled at this move. But Captain Walstein checked him.

"Hist!" he exclaimed. "Look down there, at the bottom of this street. By all that's cussed, there goes the boy now."

"Impossible," burst forth Dampier, but Walstein threw in a swift interjection.

"By the great horn spoon, it is Tom Dacre!" he exclaimed. "How in the name of time did he escape?"

"We'll find that out later," snarled Dampier vindictively. "The thing to do now is to follow him and see what he and that chap with him are up to. Rangler, you go back to the tug. Walstein and I will follow him up. It wouldn't astonish me if he's off to put the police on our track."

"Nor me, either," agreed Walstein, as, after a few words more, Rangler hastened to the lake front, while Dampier and his companion stealthily crept off in pursuit of Tom and Jeff, who were, of course, utterly unconscious of being followed.

Reaching the police station, the two lads found, to their chagrin, only a sleepy sergeant in charge. The captain had been out all night on a case, they were informed, and, with his detectives, was now at a court-house some miles off, with his prisoners.

Tom and Jeff exchanged disgusted looks, as the official yawned and returned to reading the newspaper, in the perusal of which their entrance had interrupted him.

"Can't you do anything for us?" asked Tom eagerly, unwilling to give up all at once. "It may be the last chance the authorities will have to catch those rascals."

The sergeant looked up from his paper.

"See here, young fellow," he said in a belligerent tone, "are you setting to teach me my business?"

Tom hastily assured him that such was not the case.

"But it is urgent that if anything is to be done it should be done at once," pursued the boy. "Those fellows on that tug——"

"Now, stop right there," warned the officer of the law, who had such a high idea of his importance, "what is right to be done will be done. What ain't, won't. Anyhow," he demanded, turning suddenly on the two lads, "how do I know you're speaking the truth, eh?

"Come to think of it," he added, suddenly rising from his seat and coming out from behind the desk, "you two fellows remind me a good deal of the description of two runaway bank messengers we've been asked to look for. They were supposed to be making for Canada. Yes," he said sharply, "I guess you're the lads, all right; anyway, I'll lock you up till you can prove otherwise. Dan!" he raised his voice, "Mike, Pete!"

At the words, three men appeared from a rear room. Tom saw in a flash that if this arrest was submitted to, it might result in the rascals who had abducted him getting clear away. He determined, in a flash, not to allow this if he could help it. As the first of the men ran at him, he thrust out a foot, and the fellow came down with a crash. Before any of the rest could recover from their surprise, the lad was off like a dart.

Behind him came shouts, but Tom was fleet of foot, and dodged and turned, like a rabbit with a pack of dogs hot on its tracks.

Suddenly, as he turned a corner, a voice sounded right at his shoulder: "In here, quick!"

Without thinking what he was doing, Tom darted into the doorway whence the voice had come. Hardly had he entered it, before he was seized, and received a brutal blow on the side of the head, hard enough to stun him.

"What a bit of luck!" exclaimed one of the men who had lured the lad into the doorway.

"It sure is that," was the rejoinder from his companion, who, if the reader has not already guessed it, was none other than Walstein, with his partner, Dampier. Tom, unfamiliar with Rockport, had actually doubled on his own tracks, and thus, the two men on their way up a narrow alley, had spied him just dashing into it. In a flash their minds were made up, and they slid hastily into the doorway in which they had trapped poor Tom.

They had tracked the two lads to the station, but as they neared it, the nerve of the two rascals had failed them.

"We don't want to run our heads into a halter," Dampier had said. "We'll have to let the lad go for the present."

Walstein was quite willing to agree with him in this, having no better liking for the vicinity of the law than his companion.

Naturally, they were considerably mystified as to the cause of Tom's sudden appearance; but Dampier, who had a shrewd mind, partially unraveled the solution, when he said:

"I reckon the police were not quite as willing to listen to his story as he thought they'd be. Maybe he got mad and gave 'em impudence!"

"In that case they'll be right after him," said Walstein. "We'd better be getting out of here on the jump."

"I think so, too. Here, help me with the boy. See, this alley-way runs right through to another street. We'll hurry down it and then get back to the tug as fast as we can. Come on. There's no time to lose."

The alley-way, on which the door opened through which Tom had dashed, proved to lead into a quiet, retired thoroughfare, at the foot of which the masts of shipping could be seen.

The two men, half-dragging, half-supporting poor Tom, hastened down it.

As they neared the water front, however, a strange thing occurred. Their grasp on the supposedly semi-conscious Tom had been light. They had not deemed it necessary to be over-vigilant. Now they realized their mistake, for Tom, with a swift movement, dived out of their grip, and the next instant was darting off—free once more. The blow had been a hard one, but it had not made him half so stupefied as the lad's cleverness had led his captors to believe.

CHAPTER VI.

ALONG A TRAIL OF TROUBLES.

Like the other Tom of the immortal rhyme, our lad went "dashing down the street" as though on the wings of the wind. Behind him came shouts and yells, but he paid no attention to them. He did not know that, at the very moment that he had succeeded in eluding the grip of Walstein and Dampier, the pursuing police had, in turn, picked up the trail of those two worthies. Seeing Tom in the grip of the rascals, the skeptical sergeant, who was one of the party, immediately began to put more stock in Tom's story than he had hitherto.

"The lad was telling the truth after all, I believe," he said.

"Of course he was," said Jeff indignantly, for the boy, who had established his identity and vouched for Tom, had come along, too.

The approach to Walstein and Dampier was made with all due caution, but just as the officers of the law were about to dart forward upon the two rascals, Tom made his surprising escape. At the same instant Walstein and Dampier, likewise, dashed off after Tom, so that there was a sort of triple pursuit on—Tom in chase of liberty, Walstein and Dampier in hot pursuit of Tom, and the police and Jeff in quest of both Tom and his recent captors.

Hearing the shouts of the police behind them, Dampier and Walstein turned to see what this new development might portend. It didn't take them the wink of an eyelid to comprehend what was occurring.

"Stop, or I'll shoot!" cried the leader of the authorities.

Tom heard the shout, and, not having spared time to look behind him, attributed the cry, naturally enough, to Walstein or Dampier. Naturally, also, it caused him to dash on faster than ever.

Bang!

The noise of a shot came behind him. The policeman's bullet grazed Dampier's ear, but it didn't stop him.

Right ahead was a lumber yard. Big stacks of timber were piled all about. Tom felt that if he could once gain it, he could find comparative safety from pursuit among its intricacies.

Dampier and Walstein, behind him, had the same feeling. Moreover, they knew the water front of Rockport well, and realized that it was a step from the lumber yard to where their swift tug lay, freshly coaled, and, if their orders had been followed, with steam up.

Tom gained the lumber yard, and darted like an arrow in among the piles of resinous smelling timber. In and out, he dodged, while the cries behind him grew fainter.

"Thank goodness, I seem to have them thrown off my track," he exclaimed, as he stopped to breathe.

After he had recovered a bit, he began to walk forward through the lumber yard. A few turns brought him to a wharf. As he saw the craft that lay moored there, Tom gave a gasp of astonishment, and then a cry of joy.

It was the dear old Sea Ranger!

There she lay, as trim and tight as if the exciting events that had followed the storm had never occurred.

But, as the lad was stepping forward with joyous anticipation of being reunited to his chums, he was brought to a sudden halt by a queer sound behind him.

Tom stood stock-still and listened intently.

The noise came again. It seemed to proceed from behind one of the nearby stacks of lumber.

"Funny sound," mused Tom; "wonder what it is? It——"

"Oo-oo-oo-h!"

"It's a man's groan," the lad exclaimed.

"Oh, don't strike me again! Please don't," came the gurgling moan once more.

"That fellow's badly hurt," decided Tom.

"Guess I'd better see what's the trouble," he resolved the next instant.

Stepping round one of the lumber piles, he came upon the injured man. He lay in a huddle on the planked floor of the wharf. One arm was upraised, as if to ward off a blow, as he heard Tom's footsteps.

"Don't hit me again! Don't!" he begged.

"I'm not going to hurt you. I'm—— Gracious heavens!" he half-shouted the next instant. "It's—it's Professor Podsnap!"

There was a red stain on the professor's face, as if he had been struck by some blunt weapon. His face was white and pitiful, as he looked up at Tom. He recognized him with a groan of dismay.

"You—you've come too late, my boy," he exclaimed weakly, and fell back.

It was some seconds before Tom, kneeling beside him, was able to catch any more. Then the professor spoke again. But his voice was so feeble that Tom had to bend down to catch the words.

"Jack—" gasped the man of science, "Jack and Sandy—they——"

"Yes," spoke Tom eagerly, "yes, where are they?"

"Gone!"

"Gone?"

"Yes, abducted. We entered this port a short time ago. We were setting out for the town to communicate with the authorities concerning your loss, when all of a sudden we ran into a gang of men."

"Yes—yes," said Tom eagerly.

"Well, we didn't pay any attention to them, for they were a rough-looking crowd, but suddenly one of them exclaimed: 'There's two of those boys, now!' With that they all rushed at us, and—and something struck me, and that's all I can recall."

A fear that made him feel sick and faint clutched at Tom's heart.

"These men, what did they look like?" he asked, dreading to hear the answer.

"Like sea-faring men. I should have said they were on their way to some ship. Stay! I heard a name mentioned. It—it was—let me see—Spangler, I think."

"Rangler," struck in Tom, with vibrating heart.

"Yes, that was it—Rangler."

"Good gracious! He is the captain of that tug that Walstein and Dampier were on board of."

"In that case, don't wait here to bother about me. Let us get help at once."

The professor staggered weakly to his feet, while Tom supported him as best he was able.

"Oh, those ruffians will pay dearly for this, if ever I can make them," breathed Tom. "Poor Jack and Sandy, they're in their power now."

Suddenly came voices, several of them. It was the party of police, accompanied by Jeff, and enlarged by several dock loungers and workmen.

"Here's Tom Dacre, now," exclaimed Jeff joyfully, hastening forward as he spied the lad. "Thank goodness, those scoundrels didn't get you. But—but what's happened?" he asked, gazing from the professor to Tom and from Tom to the professor.

Tom explained quickly. Then he said: "Somebody get a doctor, quick, for Professor Podsnap."

"There's one has an office right close," volunteered one of the crowd, "accidents often happen on the docks."

"Officer Dugan, be off and get him," ordered the sergeant of police, who looked very crestfallen. "Young man," he said to Tom, "I owe you an apology for doubting your story."

"You owe me more than that," said Tom, with a bitterness he could not help. "Here, Jeff, help me get the professor on board the Sea Ranger. Be as quick as you can, we must set off in pursuit of Walstein and Dampier."

At these words the police exchanged glances and looked foolish, while Jeff burst out angrily:

"They've slipped through our fingers, Master Tom."

"How—how is that?" bewilderedly asked Tom. "Isn't their tug still there?"

"It slipped out of the port while we were searching for those two rascals," said one of the policemen.

Tom looked thunderstruck. He could not speak. The stupidity of the police of Rockport seemed more than incredible.

"Then they're gone?" he asked dully. There was a ringing pain in his head. His heart felt like a lump of lead.

"Yes, Master Tom," said Jeff wonderfully gently, and slipping to Tom's side, "thanks to those chumps of police they have gotten away without waiting for all the coal to be put in. But we can telegraph every place and soon have them stopped and their craft searched for your brother and your chum. I——"

"Why don't the police get after them?" demanded Tom, anger replacing stupefaction, "why isn't there another tug after them, a——"

"They got too long a start, and there isn't a craft in this harbor that is fast enough to be of any use in chasing them," put in one of the men who had aided in the time-wasting search among the lumber.

Tom flushed angrily.

"Yes, there is—one!" he exclaimed.

"Where?" The question came from the dull-witted sergeant.

"Right there," said Tom, waving his hand toward the Sea Ranger; "do you think I'm going to let those rascals steal my brother and my chum without doing something?"

"By ginger, Tom, when can you start?"

It was Jeff who spoke, warmly, admiringly. His eyes shone with the contagion of Tom's enthusiasm.

"Just as soon as a doctor has attended to the professor. Hello, here he comes now. How do you feel now, professor?"

"Like taking after that cargo of villains as soon as we can get away," was the warlike and unexpected reply of the usually mild-mannered professor.

"But your injury?" asked Tom, self-reproachful at having in his indignation almost forgotten the professor's condition.

"I feel almost sound again—I really do," stoutly declared the professor.

The doctor, who had been so hastily summoned, coming up at this instant, the party adjourned to the stateroom of the Sea Ranger. The medico pronounced that the wound that had laid the professor low, while it had been painful, was not dangerous. He also prescribed some lotion for a large, knobby protuberance that was making itself manifest on Tom's cranium, where Dampier had struck him.

In the midst of this conference, the door was hastily thrown open, and Jeff entered. He carried a big carpet-bag, and behind him stood a bulging-eyed negro.

"Hello, Jeff," exclaimed Tom warmly, looking up. "Come to say good-by?"

"No, I'm going with you," was the decisive answer.

"An' ah hev bin hired as general factotum," announced the negro, with a grin.

"Why, Jeff, what does all this mean?" asked Tom. "I was going to engage some trustworthy men to go along."

"You don't need any," said Jeff shortly. "You did me a good turn once, Tom Dacre, that I'll never forget. You saved me from death, and likewise from a criminal life."

"But your work here, Jeff; you can't leave that to go on this cruise. Really, I——"

"It's all been arranged," calmly announced Jeff. "My uncle agrees that it's my duty to stand by you in your trouble. So another man is already on my job. And now that's all accounted for, let's get under way at once," he went on calmly.

Tom looked interrogatively at the negro, who stood modestly in the doorway, grinning widely and twisting and untwisting a pair of agile legs.

"Oh!" exclaimed Jeff with a laugh, seeing Tom's look, and interpreting it correctly as a question as to the negro's identity, "that's Rosewater. He——"

"Yas, sah! Yas, sah! Yas, sah!" said Rosewater, bowing three times with wonderful swiftness.

"He's been a sort of handy man to me round the dock, and when he heard I was going on this cruise, he insisted on coming, too. We'll find him useful. He can——'

"Kin cook! kin wash! kin sing! kin dance! an'——"

"Can't keep quiet," said Jeff in a jocular undertone to Tom, "he's a West Indian, and faithful as a spaniel dog."

And in this way, Rosewater—they never heard of any other name for him, even the negro did not know of one himself—became a member of the Sea Ranger's crew on one of the most adventurous cruises any of the party had ever embarked upon.

Half an hour after the doctor had patched up the professor, and had left the craft, the engines, under Tom's management, began to revolve.

With Jeff—a skilful steersman—at the wheel, the professor "standing by," and Rosewater in the galley, they glided out of the harbor of Rockport, heading at top speed for a distant smudge of smoke on the Huron horizon.

That smudge of smoke marked the tug of the desperadoes of whom they were in pursuit, but it seemed terribly faint and far off and almost as impossible of attainment as the pot of gold at the rainbow's foot.

CHAPTER VII.

TWO BRAVE LADS AT BAY.

"Are you there, Sandy?"

Through the darkness in the hold of the tug, in which they were confined (and which had recently been the place of Tom's captivity), Jack's voice reached the Scotch lad.

"I dinna ken. But I think so," he responded cautiously. "Some of me's here, anyhow. Whist, Jack, we're in a tight place."

"And a dark one, too," said Jack gloomily.

"What d'ye think they'll do wi' us?"

"I have no notion. But what they have done already gives a sufficient idea of what they are capable of. There may be bigger rascals on earth than this outfit, but I don't know where you'd look for them."

"By the peak of Ben Nevis, that was a dire crack on the head that Captain Mangler gave me when they attacked us in that lumber yard."

"His name's Rangler—though 'Mangler' would about fit him," rejoined Jack. "They didn't strike me, but just picked me up and stifled my cries—just as I was going to the rescue of the poor professor, too, I fear they may have killed him."

"I dinna think so. But I hope he is not on board this tug."

"Why?"

"Because, if he is, there'll be no one left behind to give a clue as to our whereabouts."

"Even if they could, I don't see what good it would do," was the gloomy rejoinder. "Poor Tom's still missing, and——"

"Whist, lad! Dinna be downcast. Tom will turn oop—like a bad penny—not that he is one, but in a manner of speaking. I'm sure he's all right. He will look out for himself and rescue us, too, I'll bet ye a siller bit."

"I hope you are right, Sandy, but this is surely a disastrous ending to what promised to be a pleasure trip."

"There's a linin' of bonnie gold to every cloud," comforted the philosophical Sandy. "But," he added with Scotch candor, "I'm blessed if I can see aught but the cloud the noo'."

There was silence for a time.

"Let's explore this place a bit," suggested Jack presently.

"Too dark," responded Sandy, "we might fall into some trap-door or hole."

"We can feel our way with our hands—oh!" and Jack almost laughed at his mistake—"mine are handcuffed."

"Mine, too, but I hadna' forgotten the fact," said Sandy dryly.

"I suppose, then, we must wait here till somebody comes."

"I guess that's aboot it. It's no' vera cheerful, but it can't be helped, as the man said when they were gangin' to hang him."

The vibration of the propeller of the tug could be plainly felt. The whole craft shook with it. It was clear that all the speed possible was being crowded on.

The heat, too, grew almost stifling. The hold was back of the boiler room, in which forced draught was being kept up, while the steam-gauges showed a pressure almost up to bursting point. Walstein and Dampier, after safely gaining the tug, following the chase through the lumber yard, had decided to lose no time in putting all the distance possible between themselves and Rockport. Their joyful reception of the news that, although they had lost Tom Dacre, his place had been taken by his brother Jack, may be imagined. Sandy they did not care so much about. They did not know that his father was quite as rich—or richer—than Chisholm Dacre. But both had been warm in their congratulations to Captain Rangler on what they deemed his clever capture.

"Phew-w-w-w! This place is like a furnace," observed Jack, after another silence of some duration. "How about you, Sandy?"

"It's hot, all right. I'd give a whole lot for a drink of water. I feel as dry as a stale loaf of bread."

"Talking of bread, I wonder if they mean to starve us or let us die of thirst?"

"Impossible to tell. I dinna ken what they mean to do. I suppose they are capable of anything."

"Yes, the inhuman ruffians! But what is worrying me is, that, supposing they don't mean to starve us, or let us die of thirst, what do they mean to do with us?"

The question was a puzzling one.

"If they don't kill us, they'll have to keep us with them all the time," said Sandy gloomily, after a while.

"Maybe they'll maroon us, like they did down in the tropics. There are plenty of islands in this part of Lake Huron."

"Yes, but this isn't an untraveled region, like it was down there. In course of time we should be picked up."

"Hum! Yes, that's so. Tell you what, Sandy, if we get a chance to escape, we'll make for some island and hide there till an opportunity comes to get off."

"Jack, do you recall that island where the ghost was snoopin' around? Ye ken the one I mean?"

"Do I? I should say so. Well, that was as tight a scrape as this, but we got out of it, all right."

"So we did," agreed Sandy, cheering up, and with almost a lively ring in his tones, "and that fix was our own fault, too. If we hadn't tried tricks on the professor and got tied to that turtle, we wouldn't have been marooned."

"Well, in this case we haven't even the satisfaction of blaming ourselves," whimsically remarked Jack.

The hours wore slowly away. At first the long wait in the darkness was merely tedious. Then it began to grow painful, and at length, such were the boys' thirst and hunger and suffering from the intense heat, that they went almost crazy.

Work as they would at their bonds, they could not loosen them. The steel bracelets resisted all efforts to unfasten them. To make matters worse, when the lads flung themselves wearily down to try and pass the interminable hours in the forgetfulness of sleep, they found that they were not the sole tenants of the hold.

Huge rats presently began scampering about. The creatures at first rushed off when the boys cried "Scat!" But, after a time, they grew bolder, and came in legions. The lads could hear their squeakings and bickerings as they nosed about them. It was truly a horrible sensation. Little red eyes, like needlepoints of fire, burned through the darkness, and Jack recalled tales he had read of prisoners whose bones had been picked of flesh by the loathsome rodents.

"They'd find us tough picking," laughed Sandy, when Jack communicated his fears, but in his easy manner the Scotch lad concealed a world of real, almost desperate, anxiety.

Their position was plainly growing more and more untenable. Already their heads felt as if they would burst from the intense heat and stuffiness of the hold. Then, too, their long fast had made them weak. Queer buzzings sounded in their ears. Shapes, that they knew were unreal, flitted through the darkness, like forms compounded of greenish, luminous smoke.

And still the tug raced along. The roar of her laboring engines filled the little craft, making her quiver from stem to stern.

"Wonder where on earth she can be?" thought Jack, in a dull sort of semi-stupid voice.

"I dinna ken, an' before long it willna' matter to us, anyhow," was Sandy's miserable response. All his fund of hopefulness had vanished.

As if in mockery at his words, the rats squeaked louder than ever as he uttered them. Their little bright eyes darted here and there in the darkness before the boys' swimming vision, like thousands of crazy fireflies. Clearly, if help did not come soon, there would be two less among the company the tug was carrying across Lake Huron, at racing speed.

CHAPTER VIII.

A TOUR OF EXPLORATION.

"Hullo, the motion of the tug seems to have stopped."

The thought filtered dully through Sandy's benumbed mind. For some minutes, indeed, the speed had been sensibly slackening, but in the lads' deplorable circumstances, they were neither of them in a condition to be speedily aware of the fact.

"Jack! Jack!" hailed Sandy, eager to announce his news. But no answer came out of the darkness. Poor Jack lay unconscious on the floor of the hold. He had given way under the strain and stifling heat.

Sandy guessed as much, when he got no reply. The realization of Jack's condition acted as a tonic to him. Summoning up every one of his dormant faculties, the lad resolved on a last effort.

Reckless of the consequences, if there were any trap-doors or holes in the floors of the hold, he plunged forward into the velvety darkness. He could hear the patter-patter of myriads of tiny rat feet as he did so, but the Scotch lad was long past caring for that. The fighting instinct of a race of fighting ancestors was fully aroused in him. He felt that it would have taken half a dozen men to stop him.

Bump! Without warning, Sandy had suddenly blundered up against what seemed to be a solid wall.

"Well, here's something, at any rate," he mused to himself. "Now, if I can only find a door in it, I'll fling myself against it and make such a racket that they'll be bound to come down, unless they are made of steel and iron instead of flesh and blood."

Then began what seemed an eternity of groping. Raising his handcuffed wrists, Sandy felt for a chink in the smooth bulkhead. Quite as suddenly as he had collided with the wall, his fingers encountered a crack.

"Eureka!" exclaimed the boy. "I guess this is what I want."

As well as he could judge, after a brief examination, the crack extended clear to the floor of the hold.

"It must be a door," thought Sandy. And then:

"Now for it," he murmured.

With a blood-curdling yell, he flung his form against the bulkhead.

The next instant he was lying flat on his face.

The door against which he had flung himself had opened smoothly and noiselessly, and the strenuous force of Sandy's shove had carried him, with a crash, into what seemed to be a cabin.

For a few seconds he was past caring what the place was. He just lay there in the light, pumping his lungs full of blessed fresh air.

"Phew! If my lungs aren't saying 'thank you, kind master,' this very instant, they're an ungrateful pair of organs," said the whimsical Scotch lad, half aloud.

The cabin was empty and sparsely furnished. But on deck could be heard the trampling of feet. Sunshine streamed through the skylight above, and Sandy judged it must be very early morning. They had lain in the stifling heat of that black hole for an afternoon and a night then.

After a few minutes, Sandy struggled to his feet and looked about him. The fresh air had hugely strengthened and revived him. He felt a new courage coursing through his veins.

In the center of the cabin was a swinging table, bearing the remains of a rough meal. But never had food looked so good to the boy as did those remnants of corned beef and cabbage, and some sort of soggy pudding, and—a most welcome sight of all—a big glass pitcher full of sparkling, clear water.

Sandy determined to free Jack somehow, and then, together, they would enjoy a long drink and something of a meal, come what might. But how to accomplish this? That was the problem.

All at once, from the hold behind him, came a cry.

"It's Jack! The fresh air must have revived him. Thank goodness for that," breathed Sandy fervently. Then uttering a loud "Hush," he made his way back into the hold.

Even in the short time the door had been open, the air had noticeably freshened. The place was filled with a dull, half light too. The semi-twilight revealed a big pile of boxes and bales in one corner of the place, but Sandy had no eyes for that. All he could see just then was the gaunt, hollow-eyed figure of Jack Dacre, staggering toward him.

"Courage, old chap," he exclaimed. "We've gained one step already."

"How on earth did that door get open?" gasped Jack, breathing the fresher air in great gulping sobs.

"Aweell now," grinned Sandy, "I guess that, unbeknownst to mysel', I must have whispered 'Open Sesame,' for the thing just swung open when I bumped against it."

The two lads were soon in the cabin, their minds busily at work as to how to free their hands. Suddenly Jack spied a bunch of keys hanging on the wall.

"Maybe some of those would fit," he suggested hopefully.

"Perhaps. We can try, anyhow. But how can we get them?"

"Easy enough. Like this."

Jack stood on tiptoe and seized the bunch in his teeth like a terrier seizing a rat. He dropped them on the table. Then came the problem of selecting one that would fit.

"This looks as if it might do," said Jack, literally "nosing" at a small, rusty key among the bunch.

"We can try it, anyhow," said Sandy; "take it in your teeth, and see if it does belong to these bits of iron jewelry."

It was a difficult and tedious task, but Jack at last accomplished it, and had the key inserted in the lock of Sandy's handcuffs. It fitted perfectly. Sandy laid his hands out flat on the table, so as to hold the handcuffs rigid, and then Jack gave a twist.

There was a sharp click, and Sandy was free.

"Now for you," he exclaimed, and, taking the key from Jack, with his now-free hands, he soon had that lad disburdened of his incumbrances. The lads really had some difficulty in keeping from cheering when this was accomplished. But, of course, they didn't. In fact, although they were now a little better off than they had been before, they were by no means "out of the woods" as yet. Like the young bears in the fable, they had still most of their troubles before them. But, nevertheless, it was a great relief to have air and the freedom of their hands.

"I guess the tug must have anchored," observed Sandy. "Wonder if we are lying at any city? If so, we could make a dash for it, and chance to there being somebody around who would help us out of our difficulties."

"I wish we had some sort of weapons," said Jack. "At any rate, we could make a fight for it. I feel as if I'd do anything rather than go back to that hold again."

"So do I. But let's get that water and then tackle some grub. I never felt so hungry in my life."

No more time was wasted on mere words. The boys fell to on the table scraps, as if they were starved—as indeed they were.

And how good that water tasted! Never had the most delicious soda either of them had ever sampled one-quarter of the cool delight of that pitcher full of "aqua pura."

"Ah-h-h-h!" breathed Jack, with a sigh of repletion, "that was something like."

"It was all of that," agreed Sandy, "and then some. But speaking of weapons, what do you know about those?"

He indicated a brace of pistols, which had been hitherto unnoticed by the lads. The weapons lay on a locker, and appeared to have been hastily deposited there by some one who had been engaged in cleaning them, for a small can of oil and some rags lay by them. The lads lost no time in pouncing on their finds.

Both proved to be loaded, and were of heavy caliber and of business-like looking blued steel.

"Look wicked enough for anything," grinned Sandy, examining his. "I don't know about the law-and-order aspect of this, but—'necessity knows no law.'"

"We would really be justified in doing anything to those ruffians," spoke Jack indignantly, "for all they cared, we might have died of hunger and thirst and suffocation in that miserable hole yonder, without a soul coming near us. I feel like facing the whole crew of the ruffianly wretches."

"Yes, let 'em come on," quoth Sandy defiantly, brandishing his pistol.

As if in answer to his words, a door at the head of a short flight of stairs was suddenly flung open, and the figure of a man appeared framed in the portal.

"Now for it," whispered Sandy. He was glad to note that in the hand which Jack impulsively thrust out to meet his, there was no sign of tremor.

Both lads flung themselves into attitudes of defense. Come what might, they felt prepared to face it, nerved by a sense of their wrongs, and of what a return to that pestilential hold would mean.

CHAPTER IX.

"FIFTY DOLLARS TO THE MAN THAT GETS THEM!"

The newcomer was Captain Rangler.

He was descending into the hold to get the pistols he had barely finished cleaning and loading, when the preparations for anchoring brought a hurry call for him to go on deck.

His amazement at seeing both the lads free of their handcuffs, and defiantly pointing the pistols at his head, may be imagined.

"Well, I'll be hanged!" he exclaimed, pausing on the third step. "What under the North Star does this mean?"

"It means that you must set us free at once," spoke up Jack. "We are at anchor now. Send us ashore in a boat."

"And what if I don't?" demanded the captain. His voice seemed to hold more of curiosity than the ferocity the boys had been prepared for.

The question was rather a puzzling one, and caught the lads at a disadvantage. They had calculated on meeting with resistance. Instead, the captain of the tug, while appearing to be much astonished at their cleverness in escaping from their captivity, didn't seem to be in any way inclined to offer them violence.

Instead, he sat down deliberately on one of the steps, while both boys, rather perturbed in mind, kept their pistols steadily leveled. But their hands were shaky. They had been prepared for anything but this, and it took them aback.

"Well?" said Captain Rangler.

He drew a pipe from his mouth, and leisurely filled and lighted it before Jack found words to reply.

"Are you going to set us ashore?" he questioned in as determined a voice as he could summon.

"Certainly we are," was the astonishing reply. "What's the matter with you kids, anyhow?"

"What did you lock us in that hold for, and almost starve us and nearly let us die of thirst in that foul hole?" choked out Sandy.

Captain Rangler assumed a cleverly imitated look of astonishment.

"Were you locked up in there?" he demanded.

"Of course we were; as if you didn't know it," blurted out Jack.

"Now, now, just hold your horses," counseled the captain. "If you were locked in there, I knew nothing of it. Dampier and Walstein promised me no violence would be offered you if I kidnapped you for them."

"Oh, so you do admit capturing us on that lumber dock at Rockport?" sarcastically inquired Sandy.

"Of course I do; I can't deny that," said the captain with cool effrontery, "but Dampier and Walstein spun me a yarn about you being two runaway sons of some relatives of theirs and that you had stolen quite a sum of money."

"In that case then, you ought to be our friend," struck in Jack. "We are not runaways at all, but lads out on a pleasure trip, and besides, Dampier and Walstein are old enemies of my uncle. They think he wronged them, and are taking this means of avenging themselves."

"Humph," said the captain thoughtfully, emitting a cloud of blue smoke from his lips, "so them two fellers wasn't telling me the truth either, eh?"

"Of course not. They are two of the biggest rascals at large. They——"

Jack got no further. A strong arm was thrown about him from behind. At the same instant Sandy was tripped and thrown flat. The captain burst into a roar of laughter, and sprang down the stairs toward them. His smoking of the pipe had been a signal to those above that all was not well below, and Dampier and Walstein had silently descended by another way, and, sneaking through the hold, had accomplished this disastrous rear attack. Captain Rangler, as the lads might have guessed, had been merely talking against time, to allow his accomplices to descend into the cabin from another direction. The column of smoke from his pipe, curling out of the companion-way, had done its duty well—too well.

But both Jack and Sandy were strong, wiry lads. Though their activity had been much impaired by the hardships they had gone through during the night, there was still a lot of fight left in them, as their attackers soon discovered.

With a quick twist, Jack freed himself from Dampier, and thrust the pistol—which he still held—into the rascal's face. Dampier, who was an arrant coward at heart, as are most men of his stripe, shrank back. His face was a sickly, pasty yellow.

"D-d-d-d-don't shoot!" he begged, trembling.

Jack looked as fierce as he could, and flourished his pistol at Walstein, who was struggling with Sandy.

The leonine-headed ex-sea captain took the hint, and joined Dampier in begging the lad not to shoot.

But, in the excitement of this dramatic scene, Jack had forgotten all about Captain Rangler. As Walstein relaxed his hold on Sandy, Rangler jumped forward, aiming a terrific blow at Jack's head. The lad ducked just in time, and the huge, knotted fist whistled harmlessly over his head.

At the same instant, Sandy, with quick-witted comprehension of the requirements of the situation, dashed straight at Captain Rangler before that worthy could recover from the astonishment of his missed blow. Straight between the giant's legs hurtled Sandy's agile red-headed form. Caught all unawares, Captain Rangler went down with a crash. His great weight, as he fell, caused the cabin table to collapse, and brought the whole thing down in a pile of wreckage.

"Quick, Jack, before they recover their wits!" exclaimed Sandy, dashing for the companionway.

Jack sprinted after him. Up they dashed, three steps at a time, and before the group below recovered from their astonishment, the two lads had gained the deck.

Apparently nobody had heard the noise of the struggle, for the deck was deserted.

"What now?" asked Jack pantingly, as they paused, undecided for an instant.

"See, there's a boat astern. We'll make for that!" shouted Sandy, heading off at top speed.

The tug lay at anchor about a hundred yards off a well-timbered shore. As well as the boys could judge in their haste, the anchorage was in a sort of steeply-walled cove. But they hadn't much time to take in details as they ran.

"What are you going to do?" panted Jack, as they sprinted past the smokestack.

"Get in that boat and row ashore. It's our only chance. They'll half kill us if they capture us again."

"But—but suppose it's an island and there are no folks living there?"

"We must chance that. Come on now! Over this rail and drop into the boat. We——"

"Hold on there, young fellows! Where are you coming to?"

The burly form of a sailor, who had been taking a nap in the boat tied astern, suddenly upreared itself from the stern sheets, just as the lads had their legs over the rail and were prepared to drop into it.

"We have orders from the captain to go ashore instantly," spoke Sandy swiftly.

"Ah! Get out with that gammon," was the disconcerting reply, "you're the two kids we catched in Rockport. You—

"Catch those boys! Hold them!"

"Fifty dollars to the man that gets them!"

"Don't let them escape!"

Uttering these and similar cries, Walstein, Dampier and Captain Rangler came pouring out of the companionway in the bow. At the same instant half a dozen sailors appeared, as if by magic, from various spots where they had been taking quiet naps.

The sailor in the boat comprehended instantly.

"Get back!" he ordered gruffly, "you've escaped. You've got no——"

The rest of his words were lost to posterity forever, for Sandy had dropped nimbly into the boat, followed by Jack. Their sudden weight tipped it to one side.

The sailor, who had been standing erect, toppled over with a splash and a yell.

"Pull! Pull for your life!" shouted Sandy.

"Pull! pull for your life!" shouted Sandy, laying hold of an oar. Jack needed no second order, but picked up another. Both lads tugged away for dear life. In the meantime, the sailor, who could swim well, had laid hold of a rope and pulled himself back on board the tug.

The lads had not got a dozen yards from the tug's side before Walstein's voice came across the water:

"Come back to the tug instantly!" he yelled from where he stood, amidst quite a crowd of the crew at the stern of the craft.

"We're in a hurry, thank you!" hailed back Sandy, defiantly.

"See you some other time," called Jack, equally recklessly. The spirit of their exciting dash was in their veins. Both boys would have faced anything rather than return to the tug just then.

"We'll be ashore in a few minutes," encouraged Sandy as they pulled at the oars till the stout ash wood bent like whalebone.

"I rather guess we—" Jack began, when something happened to cut him short.

That "something" was a shower of bullets that pattered all about them. In their haste they had not reckoned on this.

"Better stop rowing," yelled Walstein's bellowing voice, "the next ones are going to hit closer."

CHAPTER X.

A TRAP OF NATURE'S MAKING.

"Dive overboard when I give the word and swim under water!" ordered Sandy.

"The only thing to do, I guess. Look, they are going to fire again."

"Get ready, then."

Jack merely nodded. But his lips were firmly compressed, and his face bore a look of determination that spoke far louder than words.

"Are you coming back, or do we have to sink that boat and drown you two rats?" bellowed Walstein, deliberately steadying his arm on the stern bulwark of the tug to take better aim.

But before the words were out of his mouth the boat was empty. It seemed almost as if by magic, so swiftly had both boys dived, immediately following Sandy's quick-spoken:

"Now!"

A perfect roar of rage arose from the decks of the anchored tug, as the two splashes sounded and only spreading rings of water marked where the lads had vanished.

"Fire at the water!" shouted Walstein, almost beside himself with anger.

As for Dampier, he danced up and down, and shook his fists at the shore in impotent fury.

"Guess the boys have euchered us this time, Walstein," grinned Captain Rangler ruefully.

Among all that angry crew the captain alone was cool.

"No use firing at the water," he continued, "it will only be waste of ammunition. Anyway, those kids must be 'most ashore by this time."

A few seconds later two dripping forms did emerge from the water, and, wading rapidly up the beach, vanished in the thick undergrowth.

"And we haven't even got a boat to follow them in!" raged Dampier.

"Well, there's the one that they stole floating about. Peterson," addressing one of the sailors, "swim over yonder and bring that boat back."

The man kicked off his boots unconcernedly, and stripped to his underclothing. He was a strong swimmer, and speedily returned with the small craft.

"Now, then, get aboard," ordered Captain Rangler. "The sooner we take after them the less chance those brats will have to travel any distance."

"Yes; but supposing they discover the—the—you know—the old tower?" questioned Dampier uneasily.

"Pshaw!" scoffed Walstein, "no danger of that. It's too well hidden. Besides, the light hasn't been used, except for our purposes, for years. The path is all overgrown, and nobody who didn't know the way could reach it."

"Just the same, it would be awkward if they did, and were ever able to inform the authorities," spoke up one of the crew.

"That's so. But in that case they would never get away. Eh, Rangler?"

It was Dampier who spoke, his thin, ferret-like features contorted in an evil smile.

"I'm sure I don't know," rejoined Captain Rangler, as if the subject was distasteful to him, "but there's another reason. You know what that is."

"Of course. But Barkentin is guarding him. Come on, let's waste no more time talking here, but get ashore."

Five minutes later, as many as could crowd into the boat were being pulled toward the little beach where the boys had landed. In the stern sheets sat Walstein, Dampier and Captain Rangler, the most bitter enemies the two young fugitives had on earth.

* * * * * * *

The ground above the beach sloped quite steeply. It was rocky and thickly grown with brush and low shrubs, and here and there large trees mingled with the undergrowth.

Stumbling and running by turns, the two young fugitives made their way over the uneven ground with some difficulty. But the thought of what lay behind kept them moving as briskly as possible. At last the character of the ground seemed to change. They emerged on a sort of rocky plateau.

At one side of this was a cliff, and at the base of the acclivity appeared a large hole, apparently the mouth of a cave.

"We may as well take a look in there," spoke Jack; "in case of pursuit it might make a good hiding place."

Sandy agreed that the cave was worth investigating. But before the two lads plunged into the dark entrance of the place they armed themselves with heavy sticks. Later they were glad they had taken this precaution.

The mouth of the cave was black and a curious damp smell issued from it. But the boys did not hesitate. With Jack in advance, they plunged into the tunnel-like entrance. The floor of the cavern sloped steeply downward and was dry and sandy. It was pitchy dark inside, but, luckily, Sandy had a small electric pocket lamp with him, which he flashed about. It showed the boys that they were making their way through a sort of semi-circular tube in the cliff. Just how far it extended they were, of course, unaware; but they decided to keep pushing on until they came to the end of it.

All at once the rocky passage terminated abruptly in a medium sized chamber with a high roof. The air in here was cool and pleasant, and the boys sat down to rest on a rock while they looked about them in the rays of the pocket lamp.

"This is a queer sort of place to stumble on," mused Jack; "wonder if anyone ever explored it before."

"I dinna ken," rejoined Sandy, "but, mon, I can spy another openin' yonder. Suppose that when we are rested we see what is beyant."

"Very well," agreed Jack readily. "As far as that goes, I'm ready to start right now."

Sandy declared that he was rested too, and the lads crossed the rocky chamber and plunged into another passage on the other side. It was similar in character to the tunnel through which they had entered the big cavern, except that its downward slope was pitched still more steeply.

"I wonder where on earth this is going to lead us?" ruminated Jack as they trudged along.

"We must ha' come more than half a mile noo," grunted out Sandy.

"Tired?" asked Jack.

"A little."

"Well, we might as well turn back then. I don't think it's much use our keeping on any further."

"Nor do I. Besides, we might get lost, and it's fearsome dark in case that light gives oot, and I dinna think the batteries are verra strong."

This suggested an alarming possibility to Jack. He knew that Sandy had used the torch a good deal and, as the Scotch lad had pointed out, there was a chance that the light might not hold out. In such a case their predicament would be a serious one, indeed.

The lads turned and retraced their steps and, in the course of a few minutes, found themselves back in the vaulted chamber. Here they sat down to rest once more. While they rested the light was extinguished, but, as it was lonely sitting there in the dark, Sandy felt moved to relate a story of an adventure met with by a friend of his father's in a mine in the west.

This man was an engineer who had been called upon to do some inspection work on a large mine which extended several hundred feet under the ground.

"Being doon here in the dark sets me in mind of it," added the lad. "Shall I tell ye aboot it?"

"Yes, do," rejoined Jack. "It will help to pass the time while we are resting up."

Without further preliminaries Sandy plunged into his story, which we shall not relate in his dialect, but set forth in plain English.

The hero of Sandy's tale was a young engineer named MacPherson. On the day on which he met with his adventure he had completed a tour of inspection of the lower levels of the works and was invited by one of the employees to take a look at a vein which was located in a far part of the mine.

Accompanied by this employee, MacPherson set off to the remote excavation in which the vein was located. All the time they were below the ore trucks, operated by a cable from above, were ascending and descending at a rapid rate. On returning from his investigation of the vein the engineer and his friend stopped for a time to watch the trucks as they rushed up and down.

All at once MacPherson noticed that a truck of a different type to the others was coming toward them. It was painted a bright red. He inquired what it was, and was informed that it was the dynamite car which took a supply of the explosive to another part of the mine where the men were opening up a new lead.

"Pretty awkward if it should happen to bump us," remarked MacPherson with a grin.

His companion answered with a shrug.

"We'd never know what struck us," he said. "There's enough dynamite in that car to blow up half the mountain if it ever jumped the track."

The words were hardly out of his mouth before a miner came running through the tunnel toward them.

"A truck has been wrecked round the curve, just below the shaft," he cried. "I'm going to telephone to the surface and tell 'em to stop that dynamite car. If it——"

He stopped abruptly and his jaw fell. At that instant the red car flashed past with a rumble and roar, and shot round the curve at high speed.

"Down on your faces!" shouted the miner excitedly; and down on their faces they all three flung themselves without loss of time. Hardly had they done so before there was a roar that seemed to shake the earth to its foundations. The lights on the wall of the tunnel went out, and the three men were raised from the ground and slammed down again with sufficient violence to knock the breath out of them.

MacPherson was the first to recover himself. But the other two regained their faculties speedily and, sitting up, strove to collect their scattered senses. They were in pitch darkness, and only MacPherson had any matches in his pockets. These were struck sparingly as they groped their way along the tunnel. But before they had gone more than a few yards they were brought up "all standing" by a mass of rock. It had been dislodged by the explosion, and lay in great masses, completely blocking the tunnel and, as they realized, with thrills of horror, imprisoning them.

Luckily they were all men of nerve, and, instead of losing their senses, began to calculate ways and means of escape. But their deliberations brought them to no satisfactory conclusion.

Before them lay a wall whose thickness they had no means of knowing. Behind them the tunnel terminated at the vein already mentioned. They were prisoners, hundreds of feet under the earth, and how were they to know if they would ever be rescued, or even if any attempt would be made to do so.

As they realized this, despair overtook all three of them for a time. For a long period they sat, gloomily, in the darkness, without speaking. Then, all at once, reaching out his hand, MacPherson touched an iron pipe. He informed the others of his discovery and the miner declared that the metal tube led to the surface and was used to convey water to the depths of the mine. This suggested an idea to MacPherson. He picked up a bit of rock and began tapping at the pipe. He had some knowledge of telegraphy, and the taps he gave spelled out the message:

"Three of us are imprisoned. Send help."

After a time he succeeded in teaching the message to the others, and they took turns in tapping it out. But no reply came, and in despair they gave up their efforts for a time.

But MacPherson was not prepared to lose hope as easily as the others. He persisted in his tapping, hour after hour, till the rock he was tapping with cut his hands and they were bruised and sore. He was just about to give over his efforts to attract attention when there came a sudden sound that made his pulses jump.

Somebody was tapping an answer from above. MacPherson listened and made out the message.

"Where are you?"

"What do you call this tunnel?" he asked of the miner.

"Tunnel No. 4 of the Old Mine," was the reply in a listless tone. "Why?"

"Why? Because I've just got an answer to my message. There is a chance we may be saved."

The reply electrified the despairing men into new hope. They listened eagerly while MacPherson tapped out a return message.

"We are in Tunnel No. 4 of the Old Mine," he rapped out.

Then they waited for the answer. It seemed an age before it came to the entombed men.

"Will try to get help to you. But the explosion has blocked the shaft."

With this they had to be content, but the man above continued, from time to time, to send down bulletins of what was being done. In this way he announced the work of the relief parties, and described the damage done by the explosion. Three men had been killed, he said, but the others had managed to escape, although more or less wounded. When the first wreck occurred they had at once made for the upper levels, not waiting for the arrival of the dynamite car, which they knew must be on its way. In this manner they had saved themselves from death.

After that there seemed nothing more to do but to await, with what patience they might, the work of rescue. But they knew full well that if help didn't come before long they were doomed to die of hunger and thirst, for already they were beginning to feel the pangs of privation.

Water particularly was what they longed for. It was hot, stiflingly so, in their living tomb, and there appeared no prospect of speedy relief. They tried in vain to get at the fluid that they knew was inside the pipe, but, having no tools, their efforts were useless, and would not have been attempted by any but desperate men, such as they were fast becoming.

At first they kept track of the time, but after awhile their store of matches grew so low that they did not dare light them to examine their watches. To make matters worse, no answer now came to MacPherson's tappings, and so they were deprived of the means of knowing how the work above them was going on.

Hour after hour passed in the darkness, and the nerves of the imprisoned captives were cruelly racked. But suddenly a sound broke in on the silence.

It was a queer sort of scraping sound among the great mass of rock that was blocking the tunnel. Then, to the wonderment of the imprisoned men, a voice came through the darkness with startling clearness. To their overwrought imaginations it seemed almost supernatural for an instant. But the next moment the mysterious incident was explained.

The rescuing party, working on the other side of the blockade, had succeeded in forcing a pipe through the rock. Through this they were now addressing the captives. Before long the pipe served a new use. Water and food in liquid form were forced through it, the imprisoned men taking turns at getting their nourishment in this odd fashion.

For three days they were compelled to live in this manner, while their comrades worked desperately to pierce the barrier. At last it was accomplished, and rescued and rescuers met face to face. Amid cheers the survivors of the accident were brought to the surface.

It was then that a strange thing was seen. Their hair had turned white as snow from suspense and suffering, but otherwise, except that they looked thin and haggard, they showed no permanent effects of their terrible experience.

"And when I find mesel' in a tight place," concluded Sandy, "I think to mesel' of MacPherson and his comrades in yon black hole."

Jack agreed that the experience of the engineer and his companions was indeed an example of something turning up when everything seemed at its blackest, but he could not help but think that their own situation was almost as bad.

A short time after, they rose to their feet and struck out for the passage by which they had entered the big cavern. As Sandy switched on the light, however, they both became aware of something that made them jump back in a hurry.

A big black snake was coiled on the floor of the cave, almost at their feet. Another step, in fact, and they would have trodden on the reptile. As they jumped backward, with the agility of acrobats, the snake hissed angrily and, opening its mouth, showed a forked, darting tongue and ugly-looking fangs.

Sandy aimed a blow at the creature with his stick, but, instead of recoiling, the reptile made as if to strike at the lad. Just then, as the Scotch lad's misfortune would have it, he tripped on a rock and fell forward.

He uttered an involuntary yell as he did so. He could almost feel, in imagination, the fangs of the black snake fastening into his flesh. Naturally, too, in his extremity, he dropped his pocket light, which went out immediately, being one of the variety that are worked by keeping a finger pressed on a spring.

Plunged once more in Egyptian darkness, with his companion, for all he knew, involved in a battle with the serpent, Jack caught his breath. Then he struck a match. The sputter of flame showed him Sandy sprawled out at full length on the ground, while the snake had its head drawn back and its body coiled as if to strike.

At that instant the match flickered and went out. But Jack had marked where the snake lay, and, in a desperate effort to save Sandy at all hazards, he struck out blindly in the darkness. He felt his stick strike something soft and wriggly. The feeling sent a shudder of repulsion through the boy, but he bravely kept on striking out nevertheless. In the meantime Sandy had recovered himself, and, feeling about for it, found the pocket light. He switched it hastily on and saw Jack battling with the black snake, which was hissing and striking viciously in every direction.

It was Sandy's turn to take part in the battle now. With a well-directed blow he brought his stick down full on the serpent's back. Instantly the creature seemed to tie itself up in an intricate knot, writhing and lashing in what proved its death agony, for a few seconds later it lay in a limp, inanimate heap at the lad's feet.

"Well done, Sandy," cried Jack, examining the dead reptile. "It's dead as a doornail."

"I wonder if it was a poisonous one?" pondered Sandy.

"I don't know. It looks deadly enough, and I'd hate to have been bitten by it," rejoined Jack, "but come on. Don't let's waste time here. We must push on in a hurry if we want to get out again before that lamp gives out."

"Yes, it's getting a wee bit feeble," agreed Sandy. "Hoots, mon, I hope it dinna give oot. If it does before we reach the open air we shall be——"

The sentence was not completed. At that instant the dreaded thing happened. Without any warning the wires in the tiny lamp began to glow red and then suddenly ceased to shine. The boys were plunged in total darkness, and, worse still, Jack's supply of matches was exhausted.

"What on earth shall we do?" he breathed, with something of a quiver in his voice.

In rejoinder Sandy felt for his comrade's hand and clasped it.

"Dinna lose heart, laddie," he said. "Remember the story o' MacPherson and keep up your courage."

Thus admonished, Jack steadied up his nerves, and the two lads began to grope through the darkness.

"We can find the wall of the cave and then feel round it till we discover the opening," said jack in a firmer voice than when he had last spoken.

"Hurray! Here it is!" exclaimed Sandy after they had groped about for several minutes.

"Then, forward march!" cried Jack, "and let's get out of this place as quick as we can. I wish we had never come into it."

"So do I," agreed Sandy, "but it's crying when the milk is spilt."

Through the darkness the two boys advanced into the tunnel whose entrance they had discovered. They tramped briskly on for some time and at last a feeble glimmer of light began to show. This heartened them, and they quickened their steps. At last they reached the mouth of the tunnel they had been traversing.

But at its end a cruel shock awaited them.

Instead of the rocky plateau they had expected to find, they discovered that they had emerged on the lip of a cliff. Peering over the edge, they could see that they were standing on a sort of shelf, a good hundred feet above the bottom of a steep-sided ravine.

The opposite side of the abyss was not more than twenty feet distant, but how were they to cross it?

"We must turn back," said Jack in a voice tinged with despair.

But Sandy shook his head.

"We could ne'er find the right passage again," he said. "There must be several of them branching oot of that cavern. Mon, it's tough luck that we took the wrong ane, but we must aye try to find a way oot of our deefeculties."

"It's too wide to jump it," said Jack despairingly, "and unless we do that I don't see how we can get across."

"Nor do I—yet," said Sandy, looking about him with sharp, intent eyes.

But all at once he gave a joyous cry.

"We could get across if we had a bit bridge," he said.

"Why don't you wish for an airship while you are at it?" retorted Jack. "It would be just as easy to get one as to find a bridge."

"I'm nae so sure aboot that noo," said Sandy, with a grin. "See yon dead tree on the hillside above?"

Jack looked up and saw that, just above the tunnel mouth, the ground sloped steeply upward, and that rooted in the loose soil was the dead trunk of a lightning-blasted pine.

"If we could get that doon," said Sandy, "and make it fall so as it reached across yon hole in the ground, we'd have a bridge."

"Cracky! So we would. But how are we to get it down? We've no axe, and it would take a week to cut it down with our knives."

Sandy thought deeply for a while. Then he spoke.

"That wood is dead and dry. If we could get a bit fire at the roots, doon she'd coom in a jiffy."

"But we've no matches."

"Can ye no think of any other way to make fire?"

Jack shook his head.

"In books people always rub dry sticks together, but I've tried that often, and I could never get even a spark from them."

Sandy drew a small brass object from his pocket. Jack saw at once that it was one of the Scotch lad's most treasured possessions—a pocket microscope. Many a bug, beetle and butterfly had yielded up their lives on its account.

"There's a good hot sun aboot us," quoth Sandy; "noo I wonder if we canna make a good burning glass oot of this wee microscope?"

"By ginger! That's a plan worth trying!" cried Jack enthusiastically.

He began climbing the hillside to where the dead pine grew. With their knives the two boys soon had shaved off enough dried bark to start their experiment. Dead limbs in plenty lay all about.

The bark was piled up in a heap after having been shredded. Then Sandy held his microscope up between the sun and the pile of dried tinder. After a little he managed to concentrate a red hot ray on the tinder. It began to smoke, and an aromatic scent filled the air. The boys could not restrain their enthusiasm. Jack lay flat and blew on the smoldering bits of bark till they burst into flame. In a few minutes a roaring fire was heaped about the base of the old dead pine.

A long, thick limb, broken off in some winter storm, lay not far off. The boys secured this, and when they thought the fire had burned long enough to char the base of the tree thoroughly, they began using it as a battering ram.

"Now then," cried Sandy, "ane! twa! all together!"

Crash! The improvised ram collided with the old pine's partially rotted trunk.

"Glory! It's shaking!" yelled Jack. "A few more good whacks like that and down she comes."

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! went the battering ram. The old pine began to lean over majestically. Slowly, very slowly, its collapse progressed. All at once its weight tore it apart from its base, and it fell with a loud, resounding crash. The boys caught their breath. Would its outer end touch the other side of the chasm?

The next instant a jubilant cheer announced that it had fulfilled the hoped for purpose. Jack threw his cap in the air. Sandy did the same.

"It's a regular Brooklyn bridge the noo!" he exclaimed.

Half scrambling and half sliding, the boys lost no time in descending to their improvised bridge. It required some exercise of courage to straddle the not over steady trunk, and work their way across it to the other side, but it was done at last, and they stood once more on "safe ground."

"Now, then, what will we do?" demanded Jack.

"Strike out through yon woods. It can't be long before we get to some house or other," declared Sandy stoutly.

With a last glance at the "bridge" that had served them so well in what had seemed an insurmountable difficulty, the boys pushed forward, making their way through country very much like that they had traversed before they came to the cave and an adventure which had come near costing them dearly.

"Say, this brush is as thick as a fog on Long Island Sound," vociferated Jack, as the two lads pushed perspiringly forward through dense undergrowth, interspersed by huge tree trunks whose tops towered high above.

"But we've got to keep on going," remonstrated Sandy, "reminds me of that yarn of the chap who said he'd an ancestor who fought in the revolutionary war on the British side. They asked him what his ancestor did, and the chap said that he had a drum and kept on beating it."

"Hum! that's what we've got to do, 'keep on beating it,'" was Jack's comment on the perennially cheerful Sandy's anecdote.

On and on they pushed, from time to time encountering small clearings, and then again plunging into thick woods. The sun grew higher and it grew hotter, but neither of the lads gave a sign of the fatigue that he felt. But their clothes were dripping wet, as well as torn by the rough going they encountered.

At last Jack sat down on a big log on the edge of a particularly dense bit of woodland.

"Tuckered out, mon?" inquired Sandy.

"No, far from it. I could keep on for quite a while, but—but—say, Sandy, I wonder where on earth we are, anyway. Is this an island, or the mainland, or the United States or Canada, or what?"

"Blessed if I know," was the frank response, "our only plan is to keep plugging along till we find out. If it's an island it must be a big one, or we would have come to the other side of it by this time."

"That's so," assented Jack, "unless we've been traveling round and round in circles."

"Pshaw! only babies and folks in books do that. I've kept my eyes on the sun and I'm pretty sure we've been keeping in one direction right along."

"That being the case, I move that we continue to do so."

"Very well. Lay on, MacDuff, arise and gird thy loins, and——"

Sandy, as he spoke, had given a step or two forward into some marshy-looking land that came almost up to the stump on which they had been resting.

All at once, before Jack's very eyes, the Scotch lad gave an amazed, choking exclamation, and without warning, was suddenly immersed to his waist in the center of a patch of unnaturally brilliant green grass.

"Help, Jack! Help!" he cried in a voice in which real terror vibrated.

"What is it? What's the matter?" queried Jack, anxiously springing forward. This was a new disaster, and a very real one.

"It's—it's a quicksand or something!" gasped Sandy, "it's pulling me down! Help! I——"

As he spoke he struggled desperately in the grip of the quagmire that had fastened a remorseless hold on his nether limbs. But every struggle took him lower. The slimy, treacherous black mud reached his waist, then it gradually engulfed him till it was up to his chest.

Jack desperately hacked at a young tree with his big pocketknife. If he could reach Sandy with it in time, he felt that he could save his companion yet.

"Keep up your courage, Sandy," he kept on saying, in a voice that would quaver a bit in spite of itself, "I'll get you out of it, never fear."

"You'll have to hurry then, Jack," rejoined the other lad in an astonishingly calm voice, "this stuff is drawing me down as if it had hands."

At last the sapling was cut, and Jack hastened to the edge of the swamp to extend it toward his half-immersed companion. Under his directions Sandy clutched it with the grip of a drowning man.

"Now, then," cried Jack, exerting every ounce of his strength. He tugged with might and main, but Sandy still stuck fast. It occurred to Jack that, by getting closer to the boy he was trying to help, he might be of more assistance. Cautiously he ventured forward and then tried another tug.

In order to make this final effort more successful he had braced his feet against a stick of solid-looking timber that lay in the morass. But it proved "a rotten reed." As his weight came against it the soft wood appeared literally to "melt away."

Jack felt his feet slide from under him, and then—horrifying sensation—something seemed to grip them. He struggled in vain. A fly on a sheet of sticky flypaper might have tried to free itself as effectually.

The morass gave a queer, sucking sound, and great bubbles of marsh gas rose to the surface and broke as Jack floundered about. But every struggle served only to tighten his slimy bonds.

The quagmire had our two young fugitives fast in its treacherous embrace.

"Help!" shouted Jack.

"Help! Help!" echoed Sandy in a weak, despairing voice.

No answer came back, except the scream of a great blue heron which, alarmed by their cries, arose and flapped lazily out of the slough.

CHAPTER XI.

OUT OF THE DARK.

"It's no use. They are too fast for us."

Jeff Trulliber spoke from the bridge of the Sea Ranger, some hours after the chase across the waters of Lake Huron had begun.

"It does look that way," said Tom, with a sigh, gazing after the cloud of smoke on the horizon which, fast as the Sea Ranger was urged, never appeared to get any closer.

"The rascals!" exclaimed Professor Podsnap, shaking his fist at the smoke cloud.

The events of the past few hours had transformed the man of science from an abstracted, dreamy individual, into quite a warlike, ferocious being. He could talk of nothing but the vengeance he would like to wreak on Walstein and Dampier had he them in his power.

"Dinnah am sub'bed! Dinnah am sub'bed! Dinnah am sub'bed!"

It was the voice of Rosewater, speaking, as usual, in "threes."

"I haven't much appetite, but I suppose we had better eat something," said Tom. "Jeff, you and the professor go first. I'll take the wheel. The engines won't need watching for a while."

Jeff was about to expostulate and urge Tom, who looked tired and jaded, to go to the table, but he suddenly recollected that the eldest Dacre lad was now, to all intents and purposes, the captain of the Sea Ranger.

So, with an "aye! aye, sir!" and a touch of his cap, he hastened off with the professor to the comfortable cabin astern. Rosewater, considering the short time he had been on board, had certainly performed wonders in the culinary department. The table was properly spread with linen and silver, and while we are not going to describe the meal in detail, it was as good as could have been obtained in any city hotel.

But, to the disappointment of the black, who hovered solicitously over their chairs, neither his master nor the professor ate much. Their conversation was more limited than their appetites. The strain under which they were laboring was beginning to tell on them.

Nor did Tom, when he in his turn took his place at the table, display any more ability as a trencherman. He knew the cruel, desperate characters of the men who had captured Sandy and Jack too well to hope for any good treatment for his brother and his chum. On the contrary, he did not know to what sufferings they might be put by their brutal captors, especially as Tom's own escape must have enraged Walstein and Dampier to the point of madness.

He speculated a good deal as to whether the two rascals had carried out their intention of writing a letter to his uncle, demanding ransom. It seemed probable, but in the rush of events that was coincident with the Sea Ranger's departure from Rockport, Tom had no opportunity to find out. He had, however, ascertained that there was a wireless station there, and at various other points along the lakes, and he promised himself that, at the first opportunity, he would take advantage of this, to send Mr. Dacre a wireless message.

"I only wish we had had the Sea Ranger so equipped," mused Tom, who had taken considerable interest in wireless at school, "I'm a pretty fair sender and receiver myself, and if we'd only had an apparatus I could have used it to advantage right now. For instance, I could have sent out 'a general alarm' for those ruffians on the tug."

Tom's meal, as may be supposed, did not take long, and he soon left the table, which caused Rosewater to remark, sotto voce:

"Dat boy am grievin'! dat boy am grievin'! dat boy suttinly am grievin', when he kin jes look at candied sweet potatoes an' say 'not to-day, fank you'!"

During the afternoon the same relative distances between the two craft were maintained. But, as the sun grew lower, and hues of copper and gold began to spread over the water Tom, on a visit to the deck from his vigil over the engines, noted, with keen joy, that they seemed to be gaining a trifle.

"I'll try and squeeze a bit more speed out of her," he promised, diving below and exercising all his engineering ability to coax even a half a knot more out of the laboring motors.

"How about it now?" he inquired, coming on deck again a few moments later.

"Better and better," exclaimed Jeff exultingly, "I can almost make out the outlines of the tug now. My! but she's burning coal!"

"She needs to," said Tom grimly, "if I ever get my hands on those chaps!"

But darkness fell, and the grim race still kept on.

It was one of those black nights that sometimes come in summer, when the darkness is like a velvety pall. There is no need to describe the chagrin of our friends.

"Maybe she'll show a light," said Jeff cheerily, "we were close enough to her when the dark shut in to see it if she does."

"But she won't," said Tom bitterly, "you may depend on that."

"What! she'll risk running Mackinac—we must be off there now,—without lights?"

"Those fellows would risk anything to keep out of the clutches of the law," rejoined Tom positively, "mark my words, they'll run the Straits without showing a glimmer."

"They are taking desperate chances."

"Such rascals as they are have been taking desperate chances all their lives," put in the professor gravely.

"Well, how about us, Tom?" asked Jeff after supper—a meal eaten with little more appetite than dinner,—"are we going to keep on?"

"I suppose so. I don't know that it is much use, though. In this darkness we are as likely to get miles off our course as we are to stick to their heels."

"I wish there were some way of making the daylight twenty-four hours long when you wanted it to be," said Jeff impatiently, peering ahead with his hands on the wheel.

"We'd have to be further north for that," said the professor, "to the north pole almost."

"Well, we'll go there, if necessary, to rescue Jack and Sandy," declared Tom, with firm conviction.

In the darkness the professor reached for Tom's hand and found it. He wrung it warmly. Adversity brings men and boys wondrous close.

"That's the talk, Tom Dacre," he said heartily, quite dropping his pedagogic air and speaking simply and strongly. "Although Providence may sometimes seem to favor rascals, never fear but that in the end she is on the side of honest men."

"Dat's jus' what ah ses, sah, when dey excuses me of stealin' dat ole Shanghai rooster down in Barbadoes," struck in Rosewater, who happened to be close by, "ah ses, 'Ah is white as de dribben snow, yo' wushup.' I nebber done go fo' ter steal no chickens nohow. Ah was jes'— Fo' de lub ob Moses, wha' am dat!"

The Sea Ranger, for the second time on that trip, struck something, with a harsh, grating sound.

Rosewater was thrown flat on his back and rolled off the bridge, bumping down the steps like a sack of potatoes. The others only saved themselves by clutching at the rail with might and main.

"We've struck something!" shouted the professor.

"Back her!" yelled Jeff, madly spinning his wheel over. Tom had darted below at the instant of the crash, and set the reverse levers. Already the Sea Ranger began to swing backward. But her movements were slow, almost like those of a crippled animal.

"Hey, there!" hailed a fresh, youthful voice out of the darkness ahead, "what have we hit?"

"Well, what do you think you've hit?" bellowed Jeff indignantly, "an ice-cream parlor?"

CHAPTER XII.

MR. IRONSIDES' SUBMARINE—HURON.

"Who are you, anyhow?" shouted the professor, peering forward into the darkness that lay about them. There was no light ahead or in any other direction to indicate the location of the craft that had hit them.

"Ya-as, sah, dawggone yo' alls!" bellowed Rosewater aggressively, "who am you? Das wha' we wan' ter be infummed upon."

"Hope I haven't injured you," came a pleasant voice once more, "I'm awfully sorry. But as I was coming up—

"Coming up?" exclaimed Tom, who had by this time rejoined the party on the bridge, having stopped the engine, "coming up? What do you mean?"

"Why, what I say. As I was coming up from the bottom of the lake I——"

"Say, have we collided with a floating lunatic asylum?" howled Jeff.

"Well," came back the amused voice, "folks have said I was crazy, but I guess my trial trip will show that there was some method in my madness. The submarine Huron is as complete a success as I could wish. And——"

"A submarine!" yelled Jeff. "Howling mud-turtles! We've hit a submarine!"

"I'm afraid it was I who hit you," came back the voice out of the darkness. "I find one of my top plates is dented, and——"

"Fo! de lub ob goodness! De cabin am full ob water!"

Rosewater, who had been making an investigation, came flying to the bridge.

"Good gracious, that means we are leaking badly," cried Tom, "what will happen next on this unlucky cruise! Jeff, wait here. I'm off to see."

Tom found, as Rosewater had said, that there was indeed water in the cabin,—about a foot of it. It seemed to be gaining fast. But, after a rapid survey of the situation, Tom became convinced that the leak was in the bow, and that the water was running aft because of the lower situation of that part of his craft.

This conclusion reached, he hastened on deck. By this time he found that the mysterious submarine, of which they had not yet had a view, was alongside. Her skipper, who had explained that his name was Obadiah Ironsides, was shouting something up to Jeff just as Tom appeared on the scene.

"There's a big, jagged hole in your bow."

Tom peered over and speedily saw that this was so.

"Get canvas and place over the hole," shouted up Obadiah Ironsides, who seemed to know just what to do. "I can fix it in position from down here. My ventilating pipes must have ripped that hole. Yes, I see now they are bent."

His voice held a note of genuine regret, which every one on board the Sea Ranger was by far too busy to notice, however. Under Tom's leadership, some spare sails, for use on the craft's auxiliary masts, were hastily thrown over the side. The suction of the water drew them into the hole, stopping it temporarily. But the Sea Ranger was low in the water, and it was plain that she could not proceed on her voyage without repairs being made. These might prove to be a lengthy operation.

Tom was almost in despair.

"For this accident to happen at this time above all others!" he cried bitterly.

"I don't mind telling you," came Obadiah's voice out of the darkness overside, "that if you had kept on your course you'd have been wrecked anyhow. A big ridge of rocks lies about a mile ahead of you. How did you come to be way off here out of the course of ships going through the Straits?"

"We didn't know we were off our course," explained Tom. "We were in pursuit of a band of rascals. Night overtook us, but we risked keeping on, for it was urgent that we should not get too far behind them."

"What's this? What's this?" came Obadiah's voice. "My dear young man, I'm sorry indeed that I was the cause of stopping you, although, as I said, disaster must have overtaken you if you had kept on."

"I suppose nothing is so bad that it mightn't be worse," muttered Jeff.

"Tell you what," came Obadiah's voice suddenly, "the town of Brownhaven, where I hail from, isn't far from here. You are not too damaged to proceed under your own power, are you?"

"I don't think so," rejoined Tom.

"Then this is my plan: I'll go ahead—on the surface, of course—showing a light to guide you. You can follow along and before two hours are over you'll be at a shipyard in Brownhaven, where I can promise you quick repairs. I'm safe in saying this, because I own the yard. In fact, I erected it to build my submarines, of which I hope to sell several to the government."

"It's a private yard, then?" said Tom.

"Yes; but, as the accident was my fault in a way, I feel that it is only fair for me to do your repairing free of charge."

"Good fo' yo', Mister Obadiah!" hailed the voice of Rosewater, "and git us asho' as quick as poss'bul, please, fo' ah is dyin' fo' a sight ob dat dar terrier firma."

A few minutes later, with a light showing from the submarine ahead, the crippled Sea Ranger began to crawl slowly along. It was a pitiful travesty of her former brisk pace, and Tom could almost have wept. However, there was really no one to blame, he felt, and this Obadiah Ironsides, whoever he was, appeared to be doing all he could to repair the mischief he had unwittingly done.

In spite of the submarine man's promise, it was considerably more than two hours before a row of scattered lights, which Tom presumed marked Brownhaven, came into view. The channel, too, was intricate, and altogether it was well past midnight when the Sea Ranger was anchored off a dry-dock, which Obadiah had fitted up in his boat yard.

"Now," said he, coming alongside in his craft, "if you fellows will come on board I'll take you ashore. I'll promise you that repair work will be begun the first thing in the morning. From what I could see of the injury it ought not to take more than a few hours."

The ship's company of the unfortunate Sea Ranger descended, by means of a sea ladder, to the submarine, whose outlines could only be seen dimly. As Tom's feet struck the deck plates of the strange craft, they gave out a hollow, metallic ring.

"Steel, with an aluminum alloy, which is my secret," said the inventor.

"But come below, gentlemen; come below. If this is your first visit to a submarine you may find much to interest you."

He led the way to a sort of helmet-shaped projection, pierced with eye-holes and screened with very thick glass, which stood amidships. He leaned down as he reached this, and pulled a lever. Instantly a door slid back with a clanging sound, and a stream of soft light poured up from below. As it fell on Obadiah Ironsides' face, Tom gave a cry of astonishment. He had not had a good view of the inventor before—the light by which they had followed the submarine not revealing his features fully.

Tom's exclamation, not in accord with true politeness, was called forth by the fact that Obadiah Ironsides, whose name and whose manner both would have led one to suppose him an aged man, was a mere youth. In fact, he didn't look much older than Tom. He wore a suit of some sort of black leather, like an automobilist's. His hair curled crisply above a high, white forehead, and his features, which were regular, although strong and rugged, were lit up by a pair of dancing blue eyes.

They danced more merrily than ever as he gazed at Tom's astonished face and the amazed looks of the rest of the "castaway crew."

"Thought Obadiah Ironsides was a regular old fogy, eh?" he laughed, "Well, he's not. Not a bit of it. But come below and see what you think of my little craft."

So saying, he plunged into the opening in the helmet-shaped conning tower, and was followed by the others. Inside the helmet was a steel stairway by which they descended into surroundings stranger than any of them had ever encountered.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE STRANGEST VESSEL ON THE LAKES.

The newcomers found themselves in a cylindrical-shaped chamber, possibly twenty feet long by twelve feet or so at its widest part. The rivet-studded walls showed that the structure was of metal, but comfortable leather-covered divans were placed along each side, inviting to rest and meditation. Obadiah Ironsides invited his guests to sit on these while he explained his craft.

After he had explained how it was driven by gasoline engines on the surface, and by electrical motors when under water, he conducted them into the engine room. Except for the electrical driving machinery it did not differ radically from that of the luckless Sea Ranger. A striking feature of the machinery, though, was the huge pumps for exhausting the "sinking tanks" of water when the operator of the craft wished to rise, and the appliances for supplying fresh air in quantities when submerged, by the expedient of sucking out the exhausted atmosphere.

"How long could you keep submerged?" inquired Tom.

"For two days, if necessary. I have accomplished that already. Possibly, at a pinch, that time might be lengthened considerably," was the response.

A visit to the forward compartment then followed. This was the space devoted to the torpedo discharging machinery, for, as Obadiah had explained, the primary purpose of the Huron was for warfare. And a formidable craft for that purpose she appeared to be. The interior of the conning tower was next inspected. It was a place of mysterious levers, and wheels of glittering brass and steel. Like the rest of the craft it was lighted by electricity.

On the walls were gauges to show submergence, speed, air-pressure and several others, which were far too technical in their purposes to explain here. A comfortable seat was provided for the steersman, who could control the unique steering apparatus by one hand by means of a lever, or, in case of necessity, by pedals—like those of an automobile. This left his hands free to attend to torpedo discharging and so on.

"In designing this craft," said Obadiah Ironsides, "it has been my aim to provide a craft that was of positively 'one-man control.' It was to try out how far this was feasible that I took my lone trip under the lake to-night."

"And did you find your craft handled all right?" inquired Tom.

"I did till I bumped your vessel on rising," said Obadiah Ironsides, with a whimsical grimace.

"Is it not possible to provide some sort of apparatus which will give you warning of the vicinity of other craft?" asked the professor, who had listened and observed with the deepest attention while this singular hermit of the underwater talked.

"It is," rejoined Mr. Ironsides; "in fact, I have been experimenting with one which is in readiness to be affixed to the Huron. It is similar in its workings to those used by Atlantic liners in feeling their way through a fog."

"Then your submarine is complete?" asked Tom.

"Yes. In two weeks' time I am going on a trip through the great lakes with her, and then I shall have her shipped to attend the government tests at Newport News."

"One question more," put in the professor, "you have chosen a very out-of-the-way place to conduct your experiments."

"For a very obvious reason," said Obadiah Ironsides, with one of his pleasant laughs, "you must know that every navy in the world is experimenting with submarines. They are, in conjunction with torpedo destroyers, the war vessel of the future. The Russo-Japanese war proved that. Now, then, the competition is naturally keen among inventors to produce the best type of submarine. Inventors, as a class, are a splendid, upright set of men; but, I regret to say, that all are not so. Some of them are unscrupulous to a degree. It was to escape the surveillance of spies of a rival submarine concern that I buried myself up here. And there you have it," he concluded with a laugh, "unless, indeed, you wish to know whence I get my funds?"

Tom and the professor held up their hands in protest.

"My dear sir," said the professor.

"Not at all," laughed Obadiah. "My father was the well-known maker of iridium steel. He amassed a fortune in its manufacture. I learned my business in his foundry. When he died he left me his large fortune, which I devoted to experimental work. My dear mother soon followed him to the grave, and then, having only my work left to live for, I plunged into it with a vengeance. Possibly my ample funds have helped me to go further than some inventors with more ability but less capital," he concluded modestly. "So," he broke off with a laugh, "there you have the autobiography of Obadiah Ironsides, at your service. And now, as it is late, and I'm sure you are tired, we will retire."

"Have you a boat to get ashore?" asked Tom, wondering when the resources of this wonderful craft would be exhausted.

"I have one. A water-tight craft bolted to the deck. She is reached by a trap in the ceiling of this cabin. But unless you insist upon going ashore I'll show you that feature of the Huron some other time. But to my mind, the order of the day—or, rather, night—is bed."

"Beds?" inquired Tom, looking about him as if he rather expected to see some spring from the floor of this wonderful craft.

The professor merely tried to look unamazed, as became his dignity, while Jeff and Rosewater were both frankly overcome and speechless by the wonders they had beheld.

"I haven't advanced quite as far as that yet," laughed Obadiah, noting Tom's glance at the floor, and reading it aright; "but those divans can be converted into very comfortable Pullman couches, and opposite the galley, which you recollect is between the engine room and this apartment, is a bathroom and shower, and all the fittings just as you would find it in a hotel."

"Say, is there anything left out on this wonderful craft?" gasped Tom in amazement.

"Yes, one thing," laughed Obadiah, "a contract with Uncle Sam!"

Levers and springs controlled the couches, which were reversible. On the underside, as they turned over, were discovered comfortable mattresses, snowy sheets and neat counterpanes. They lost no time in turning in, Tom having an indistinct recollection of hearing Rosewater murmur, as he sank off to sleep:

"Ef dis yar tea kittle sinks in de night ah don' cahr. Ah'se gwine ter sleep till dat Gabriel blows his horn."

It was broad daylight when Tom awoke. This fact was evidenced by the sunlight streaming cheerily through the open hatchway leading to the deck. An appetizing aroma of frizzling ham and eggs, and the added savor of hot coffee, filled the air. It proceeded from the galley where Obadiah had already set Rosewater to work.

Tom leaped up and made for the bathroom. He reveled in the shower, and, having aroused the professor and Jeff, he fell to his dressing with a feeling of renewed vigor. In daylight, even inside this steel shell, things looked much brighter than they had during the gloom and uncertainty of the night. He had hardly completed his dressing when Obadiah himself appeared, accompanied by an elderly man of benign appearance.

"This is Sam Wrenchly, my foreman," he explained. "He has looked over the damage to the Sea Ranger and informs me that it will take two days to repair her."

"Two days!"

Tom could not repress a groan. He sank down on the edge of the bunk and buried his head in his hands. What might not happen to his brother and his chum in two days? It was a crushing blow, and Tom could not be blamed for feeling "knocked out" for an instant.

Obadiah placed a hand kindly on the lad's shoulders.

"Come, cheer up, Tom," he said softly, "I have news for you. Sam here knows something of this Captain Rangler and his haunts."

Tom looked up, alert in an instant. The old man nodded his head sagely, and smiled under his gray beard.

"Yes, Rangler and I met many years ago," he said; "but I have occasionally heard of him since."

"And you think you know where he has taken my brother Jack and my chum Sandy?" asked Tom.

"I think so," said the old man calmly. "Did you ever hear tell of Castle Rock Island?"

CHAPTER XIV.

OFF ON A LONG CHASE.

"Castle Rock Island!" echoed Tom, in an amazed voice, "why—why—that's Mr. MacTavish's island where we were going camping."

"Aye, it used to belong to a man named MacTavish, a lumber capitalist from Mackinac. It may belong to him yet for all I know, but no one's lived on it for many years, and it's become a sort of roost for a gang of rascals," replied old Sam Wrenchly.

"You are certain of this, Sam?" inquired Obadiah Ironsides.

"As certain as I'm standing here," rejoined the old man indignantly, as if he didn't much like having his word questioned, "wasn't I keeper of the old lighthouse that used to stand there, and didn't I have trouble with this fellow Rangler at that time?"

"So there used to be a lighthouse on it?" asked Tom.

"Yes. I guess the ruins of it are there yet. But that channel isn't used any more, and the lighthouse, if it's still there, must have fallen into ruins. Yes, it was a queer sort of place was that island."

"Queer? In what particular way?"

It was Obadiah Ironsides who put the question.

"Why, there were all sorts of tunnels and places in it. They say they were made by Indians who formerly mined there for copper. Some says as they're haunted by ghosts and such. But I place no stock in such stuff. All I know is that the tunnels is there. I've seen them with my own eyes. One of them was right close to the lighthouse. Its mouth wasn't a hundred yards from it. The way I discovered it was, my cow fell into it one day. Aye, and a fine job I had getting her out, too," quoth the garrulous old man, "she was a strawberry-colored cow, and as good a milker as ever——"

"Never mind that now, Sam," said Obadiah, in his gentle but decisive way, "I think if you will put the finishing touches on that submarine device for detecting the location of nearby craft, that it will be a good thing. We may need it as soon as possible."

The old man looked surprised, but made no comment.

"I'll get to work on it right off, sir," he said, shuffling up the steel ladder, "all it needs is the threads put on two bolts. Wonder what's in the wind now," he added to himself, as he clambered laboriously up to the deck and then sculled ashore by the boat with which he had come off to the Huron.

At this juncture, the professor and Jeff emerged from their ablutions and presently the whole party was ready for breakfast. Tom, despite his worry, did ample justice to the meal. The novel surroundings gave it an additional zest.

When breakfast was concluded, Tom was for going on deck at once, but Obadiah checked him.

The inventor and promoter of the Huron-type of submarine had been in deep thought throughout the repast. Tom, and the rest with him, concluded that his mind was busied with some problem connected with his work. But it now proved that it had been otherwise.

With the suddenness, and yet thoroughness characteristic of him, Obadiah Ironsides had arrived at a decision which was to prove of great moment to the Bungalow Boy and his friends.

"You wish to reach Castle Rock Island without delay, of course, and discover if Rangler and his rascally crew have really made it their destination?" he said without preliminaries.

"Why of course," rejoined Tom, rather puzzled as to what could be coming next, "anything like a clew is worth investigating and—and this seems to be a red hot one."

Obadiah Ironsides smiled slightly at the lad's impetuous way of putting it.

"But how are you to get there till the Sea Ranger is repaired?" he asked.

"That's just it," muttered Tom disconsolately, "Two days of delay, and who knows what may happen in that time? It's really mortifying. But I suppose there's no help for it. That is, unless there is some fast craft we could charter right here at Brownhaven."

"I think there is one," said Obadiah quietly.

"There is one?"

"Yes."

"Where is it? I'd like to——"

The inventor held up a hand. Tom had started to his feet.

"No need to look very far for that craft," said Obadiah smiling.

"I don't quite understand——"

"You are on board it."

"On board it?"

"Yes. Right now. The Huron is at your disposal. I feel that I was responsible for delaying you at a critical moment. All I can do to repay you for the annoyance and anxiety is to place myself and the Huron at your command. No, don't thank me. I have a selfish reason, too. Most of us have, I fancy, for our so-called good actions. I like to see rascals punished. That's one reason for my aiding you in your pursuit. I wish to thoroughly try out the Huron on a long cruise, that's another reason——"

"And number three?" demanded Tom, whose eyes were dancing with excitement and gratitude.

"Number three," quoth Obadiah heartily, "is that I like you. You're the right type of boy. You know the old saying that 'Providence helps those who help themselves.' Well, in this case, I'm going to play Providence."

"You and your fine craft," broke in the professor. "Mr. Ironsides, you are a man in a thousand. We can never be sufficiently grateful to you."

"No sah! No sah! No sah! Dat we can't, sah!" struck in Rosewater.

Crash!

In his enthusiasm the negro dropped an armful of plates he had been removing.

The accident, and the negro's comical expression of dismay, broke the tension of the moment, which was becoming quite emotional. They all broke into a hearty laugh.

"I guess you can show your gratitude best by not smashing the inventor's plates, you black rascal," admonished Jeff, as Rosewater, quite abashed, sought the seclusion of his galley.

"And now, come on deck," invited Mr. Ironsides, "and take a look at the good craft Huron in broad daylight."

They gladly obeyed the invitation. On gaining the deck, via the steel stairway, an animated scene met their gaze. All about spread the sparkling waters of the harbor—a tiny place—with the tree-enclosed town nestling on a hillside at some little distance. Close at hand lay the poor Sea Ranger, a big, jagged hole showing in her bow. Ashore, almost opposite to them, was the smokestack and high palings marking the site of Mr. Ironsides' experimental ship yard, where he fondly hoped the future submarines of Uncle Sam's navy would be constructed.

On the foredeck of the Huron several men had just completed straightening out the damage done to the diving torpedo boat when she had her accidental encounter with the Sea Ranger.

The deck was of whaleback shape, formed of plates of the inventor's secret metal. All round were iron uprights, supporting a rail made of steel chain. Everything about the exterior of the craft was painted a dull gray color—like that of the sea on a cloudy day. Mr. Ironsides explained that this color made the craft almost invisible, even when lying on the waves not more than a mile from another vessel. Not a bit of bright work or brass was visible. Nothing, in fact, to catch a betraying ray of light.

Aft of the helmet-shaped conning tower, with its two goggling eyes, and its smaller "optic" for the projection of the rays of a powerful searchlight, was a humpy-looking object, not unlike the half of a giant gray watermelon. This, the inventor explained, was the Huron's "long boat." It provided an emergency means of leaving the craft in case of accident.

It was bolted to the deck and hermetically fastened by means of gaskets. It was designed to be entered from below by a trap door of metal which could be instantly closed and sealed. A similar door was in the boat. In case it was desired to arise to the surface it was a simple matter to crawl up into the boat, close the door in the Huron's "skin," and then close a similar contrivance in the deck of the singular long boat. This rendered it practically a water-tight bottle of steel. To rise to the surface four bolts were loosened when the "boat" would, of course, detach itself from the Huron and shoot to the surface. This accomplished, those within could unbolt the round plate by which they had entered, and obtain air and a view of the surroundings. To make this miniature submarine more complete, a tiny gasolene motor of four horse power was fitted inside it, enabling it to make about six miles an hour on the surface.

There were many other features of the Huron, to explain which, in detail, would be wearisome. They may all be summed up by saying that not a contrivance for safety or comfort appeared to have been overlooked. It would have been hard to imagine a more completely outfitted craft for the purposes for which she was designed. Possibly we should mention that she also carried a "field wireless" apparatus, with an adjustable telescopic steel pole to carry "the aerials." This was stored below, but when needed could be brought on deck and communication established within a radius of four hundred miles. The generators were, of course, operated by the machinery in the hull below.

By the time all this, and much more, had been explained by Mr. Ironsides, a boat appeared from the shore, conveying old Sam Wrenchly, who was to form one of the Huron's crew, and his belongings. The boys then took a trip to the Sea Ranger, and selected what they wished to carry along. Necessarily, the outfits were limited, so far as bulkiness was concerned.

Before the boat returned to the shore, Tom composed, and entrusted to the workman who rowed the boat back, a long telegram to Mr. Dacre. This informed him minutely but concisely of all that had occurred, and told him the Huron's destination. Tom took the liberty of advising his uncle, should he decide to come north, to take train to Brownhaven and proceed to Castle Rock Island with the Sea Ranger, which by that time would be repaired. If all went well they would await his coming there, the message concluded. Tom felt much relieved when this had been done, and, with a lighter heart than he had felt for some days, watched with interest while the electrical winch hoisted the Huron's anchor.

A few moments later, with Mr. Ironsides at the wheel, the submarine nosed out of Brownhaven Harbor. She moved through the water rapidly and with little vibration.

"Hurray! We're off!" exclaimed Tom, who, with the professor and Jeff, was seated on the whaleback deck.

"Yes, off into the unknown," quoth the professor, who was at times given to what he himself would have called "hyperbole," and Tom, "high faluting" language.

CHAPTER XV.

"WE'VE STRUCK A SUBMERGED WRECK!"

It was one of the most fascinating experiences that had ever befallen Tom Dacre—this of sitting at his ease on the metal back of a submarine monster, rushing through the water at a speed which Mr. Ironsides declared was almost twenty-five miles an hour. The spray flew back in the faces of the party on deck, whipping the keen blood into their cheeks. The roar of the water, as the submarine parted it in two mighty foam-crested waves, was like that of a waterfall.

"Better come inside now," said Mr. Ironsides, after a while, "I'm going to try a burst of speed, and you might get drenched."

When they were all assembled in the conning tower, and pretty closely packed, too, they were, in that narrow metal structure, Mr. Ironsides pressed a button. Far off somewhere within the submarine, a faint tinkle responded. It was a bell calling on old Sam in the engine room to "let her out." Like a race horse when the barrier flies up, the Huron gave a sudden leap forward as her three propellers bit into the water. A wave, like a tidal inundation, rose high on each side of her bow. From the conning tower she appeared to be plowing her way through a canyon whose walls were of water.

So suddenly had the burst of speed followed the signal to increase her rate of progression, that the party were thrown one against the other. Tom almost lost his feet, fetching up against the professor with a bump that caused the man of science to ejaculate a most undignified "Ouch!"

"Well, what do you think of it?" inquired Mr. Ironsides, who had stood calmly at his steering lever with his lips compressed into a line, and his hawk-like eyes peering keenly ahead during all the confusion.

"Think!" exclaimed Tom, "I don't know what to think. It's—well—marvelous doesn't describe it."

"So you are impressed, eh?" asked the inventor, in whose tones an under current of satisfaction was plainly perceptible.

"Impressed! My dear sir, we are dumfounded!" gasped the professor.

"Wait," went on the inventor with a queer sort of smile, "you haven't seen half yet."

"What's coming now?" wondered Tom. He was about to speak, but instead a sudden cry forced itself to his lips. Looking down the water-walled canyon through which they were rushing he became all at once aware that the huge black hull of a lake steamer was looming right ahead of them.

At the terrific pace they were making (the speed indicator recorded thirty knots), it seemed impossible to avert disaster, swift, awful and in evitable.

Tom glanced at the others. The professor's lips were parted with a look of horror. Jeff was white and was gripping a hand rail so tightly that the blood had left his knuckles. Rosewater had turned a sickly gray under his black skin.

"Fo' de lan's sake!" he kept murmuring over and over.

Then Tom's gaze was turned toward the inventor. He stood at his lever as immovable and unmoved as a figure carved from stone. A half smile appeared frozen on his face.

They were very close to the black, wet sides of the steamer now. Tom, looking upward, could see figures scurrying about her lofty decks. They were gesticulating and pointing, and doubtless shouting as they saw this little fury of the lakes bearing down on them. Even in that thrilling moment Tom found himself wondering how it would feel if the Huron was engaged in war and the vessel they were rushing upon was one of a fleet of Uncle Sam's enemies.

Try as he could to repress it, a shout would force itself to his lips. So close were they to the steamer now, that one could plainly see the rivets in her tall, black sides. Tom even noted her name, North Star.

"Mr. Ironsides!" he cried, springing to the inventor's side.

Had the man gone suddenly mad? Did he wish to hurtle them all into destruction?

The professor, too, sprang forward.

"Great heavens!" he cried, "we will be dashed into eternity. I implore! I order! I insist——"

Swish-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h!

A strange sound suddenly filled Tom's ears. The daylight was blotted out. The lights flashed up all through the diving boat. The floor tilted at a sharp angle, throwing the occupants of the conning tower once more into a confused mass.

While they were still in a swirl of confusion, the inventor's lean, claw-like hand shoved over a lever. The roaring noise ceased. The Huron resumed an even keel.

"We—we took a dive under that vessel?" gasped Tom, in a voice of incredulity.

"We did," smiled Obadiah. "You must forgive me for scaring you, but sometimes I feel like a schoolboy. I love to play tricks. I guess you thought we were going to smash into that ship's side."

"Well, I didn't see how it could be avoided," said Tom, rather shamefacedly, for the inventor's eyes were fixed on him with a whimsical smile.

"My dear sir!" expostulated the professor, "I—we—of course, you must understand I was in no sense alarmed——"

"Not any more than that time on the Omoo, when poor Jack and Sandy played ghosts with green faces," grinned Tom, sotto voce.

"Ah done heard dem golden harps playin' jes' as plain!" confessed Rosewater frankly.

"Well, as you see, the Huron is under perfect control at all times," said Mr. Ironsides. "We have dived under the keel of that craft, and I imagine, caused those on board her to indulge in a considerable amount of speculation as to whether they really saw us or not."

He laughed in a care-free, boyish fashion that he had, and which made it difficult for his companions to realize that their shipmate was one of the brainiest men in the United States. They had merely had a specimen of Mr. Ironsides' way of amusing himself.

"Shall we come to the surface?" he asked presently.

"I don't think it would be a bad idea," said the professor, in a rather relieved tone, "this darkness is—is——"

"It kind of gets on one's nerves," said Tom, finishing the sentence for him.

"Oh, you'd soon get over that," said Mr. Ironsides easily. "Of course, it's natural, though. I'll never forget the first time I went down in this craft. I was alone. I didn't want any one else to risk his life. For a time I was in a state of delightful uncertainty as to whether she'd rise again or not."

"It must have been mighty unpleasant," volunteered Tom.

"It was, I can assure you. But then I had the pleasure of feeling that my boat had really dived, whether or not she would come up again," said Mr. Ironsides, in as matter-of-fact a tone as could be imagined.

"Queer sort of pleasure," thought Tom, glancing at the young inventor curiously.

"I think it's the—the loneliness under the water that impresses one," he said aloud, looking out of the conning tower window. Ahead lay a black void. It was the same all about them. The Huron was encompassed by solid walls of water. It was a weird, uncanny sensation, and all of the party seemed to fall under its spell.

"Ready!" cried the inventor sharply, pulling another lever.

It was as well he had uttered the warning, for at that instant the prow of the Huron inclined upward sharply. The same swishing sound that had filled the submarine when they sank made itself noticed.

"It is the compressed air forcing the water out of the submergence tanks," explained Mr. Ironsides. "What you heard when we sank was the noise of their being filled by an emergency device, especially designed for a quick dive."

"Which, in that case, was necessary," remarked Tom somewhat grimly.

All at once, while the submarine was still tilted sharply on her upward course to the surface of the lake, a bell above Mr. Ironsides' head tinkled sharply.

Coming, as it did, in the midst of their acute mental tension, it jangled Tom's nerves sharply.

"It's the sensograph!" exclaimed Mr. Ironsides, with what Tom fancied was one sharp flash of alarm.

"What does it mean?" began Tom. "Are we——"

"It means that we are in dangerous proximity to a submerged wreck!" was the disquieting reply.

The words had hardly left Mr. Ironsides' lips before there was a jarring crash.

The submarine quivered throughout her structure. Her swift motion ceased as if she had been dealt a mortal blow.

As if he had been the victim of some ugly nightmare, Tom felt the diving boat begin to sink. She seemed to be lying over on her side—helpless beneath the waters of the lake.

CHAPTER XVI.

IN THE GRASP OF CALAMITY.

Once before Tom had faced death in the depths. This was when he had battled with the octopus in the wreck of a sunken treasure ship in the tropic seas. But then he had been fighting for his uncle's life, and his success had been dependent on his own efforts.

Imprisoned in the stricken submarine, however, the experience was far different, and vastly more alarming. In the first place, none of them could do anything but await the result of Mr. Ironsides' hasty efforts to right his craft, and the inaction was as hard to endure as the actual peril.

From a speaking tube close to the helmsman's ear a voice trickled up from the depths of the diving vessel's interior. It was old Sam calling up from the engine room.

"What's happened, sir?"

Tom could hear the words as plainly as one can sometimes hear a voice coming over the phone even when one is at some distance from the receiver.

"We've struck something, Sam. I don't know what yet," shouted back the inventor, in a steady, even tone. "Better stand right by your engines. Are they working all right?"

"Splendidly, sir," came back the response. "Any other orders, sir?"

"No, that's all for the present, Sam."

Tom felt ashamed of himself. With this feeling came a new one of self-possession, taking the place of the deadly, almost nauseating fear he had experienced an instant before. If the inventor and his assistant could be calm, so could he, Tom Dacre, master his terror.

He stepped up to Mr. Ironsides, making his way with some difficulty, for the submarine was still wallowing over on her side. But, in obedience to Mr. Ironsides' previously telegraphed orders, she was backing slowly away from the hidden obstruction she had collided with.

"Any orders, Mr. Ironsides?"

The inventor glanced round. His face was lined and rigid, but he showed no trace of his deep anxiety other than this. For all the excitement he betrayed, he might have had ice water instead of blood in his veins.

"Ah! It's you, Tom Dacre? Yes, I have some orders. I wish you would go forward into the torpedo chamber and see if we are taking in any water. I'm rather afraid that a plate may have been sprung."

"And if there is a leak?" asked the professor, who, like Tom, had succeeded in mastering his first alarm.

"If there is," was the placid response, "we must stop it; or," he paused for an instant, "or remain down here."

Even Tom blanched anew at these words. Death in a watery tomb was staring them in the face. But he hastened off on his errand. Anything was better than helpless inaction at such a moment.

Fortunately, the lights had not been extinguished in the crash, and the metal-walled torpedo room was illuminated brilliantly with a flood of electric light. To his great relief, Tom, after a careful examination, was able to report that there were no apparent injuries to the Huron, forward. She seemed to be as tight as a bottle, thanks, doubtless, to her double "skin."

"I hardly thought that she would be seriously damaged," said the inventor calmly. "See, she is coming up on an even keel, too, now. I guess we'll start a little investigation right here."

"Ain't we a-gwine up to de top?" whined Rosewater, who was cowering in a corner.

"Not yet," was the calm response, "I want to find out just what it was we struck."

"Good heavens! The man must be made of his own metal," Tom heard the professor gasp under his breath. But, excepting Rosewater, none of them remonstrated.

While they watched him curiously, Mr. Ironsides shoved the engine room signal lever over to "Ahead, slow."

The backward motion of the diving craft ceased. She began to creep forward.

All at once, Mr. Ironsides pressed a button at his elbow. A sharp click responded, and the water in front of the Huron became illuminated with a flood of brilliant, blinding white light. Tom could see fish dart off out of the lane of light like coveys of partridges. Some, fascinated seemingly by the rays, flocked about the conning tower, dashing themselves against its thick lenses like moths round a lamp chimney.

"That searchlight is the most powerful I could devise," said Mr. Ironsides, in a tone of quiet satisfaction. "I guess it's doing its work all right."

"I guess so," agreed Tom enthusiastically. The boy had quite forgotten his alarm in the sensation of watching the wonderful illumination of the waters.

"Keep a sharp lookout," urged the inventor. "I am anxious to see what it was that we struck."

Tom found himself wondering over the necessity for this, but he held his peace, and busied himself in gazing out of the conning tower windows. For some time nothing appeared in the field of light but masses of water. The liquid looked greenish and almost solid—like thick glass—in the powerful rays of the searchlight.

"It must be somewhere hereabout," commented Mr. Ironsides, after several minutes had gone by without revealing anything.

He began to move the searchlight about, controlling its shiftings by a worm-gear and wheel.

All at once Tom spied something, a dark, indefinite-looking mass, off to the right.

"Look! Look there, Mr. Ironsides!" he cried.

"Jove, boy, you have sharp eyes!" commented the inventor, turning his gaze in the direction Tom had indicated.

"Is that what we struck, sir, do you think?" asked the boy.

"We'll go closer and see what it is. Oh, don't be afraid, professor; there's no danger this time," he added, for the man of science had begun to protest against what he termed "sheer recklessness."

Slowly, very slowly, the Huron crawled through the lower waters.

It speedily became evident that the indefinite object that Tom had seen, looming up vast and shadow-like in the searchlight's path, was the sunken wreck of some sort of a vessel. As they drew closer, they could make out the masts and see the big black hull.

"Humph!" commented Mr. Ironsides. "It's lucky the sensograph gave warning when it did, or we might not be in as good shape as we are now."

Under the inventor's handling, the Huron was moved slowly round the sunken craft. She had been lumber laden, evidently, for part of her cargo could be seen still lashed to her decks.

As they rounded her stern, Tom saw a name in white paint inscribed on it.

"Mary J. Jennings—Rockport."

"Why, I recall reading about the loss of the Jennings!" he cried. "It was last winter, in a bitter storm, that she was lost with all hands. At least, they supposed she was lost, for she never reappeared. I suppose her load of lumber had kept her from sinking altogether, though she was water-logged enough to be submerged."

"I guess that's it," agreed the inventor. "That craft," he went on solemnly, "is the grave of a crew of brave men."

"And might have proved the cause of our being doomed to a tomb on the bottom of the lake," struck in Tom. He shook his fist at the sodden wreck as the searchlight illumined her outlines.

The inventor turned to him with a smile.

"Makes you feel mad, doesn't it, Tom?" he asked.

"Well, not mad, exactly. I hardly know how to describe it," faltered Tom.

"How would you like to have revenge on her, to put her out of the way for good?" asked the inventor.

"How do you mean?" asked the lad, rather incredulously.

"I mean that if she should ever come to the surface she is a real menace to navigation. As it is, she almost caused the loss of the Huron. I should like to remove her forever."

An inkling of his meaning dawned on Tom.

"You mean that you want to torpedo her?" he demanded.

"Yes. It would give me a whole lot of satisfaction. What do you say?"

"That would certainly be a revenge of a twentieth century character," spoke the professor.

"By George!" exclaimed the inventor, with more animation than he had shown since our party had encountered him, "we'll do it. Here, Jeff, you take the wheel. Keep her circling round the wreck. Tom Dacre, I've a job for you in the torpedo room."

"A job for me?" echoed Tom wonderingly.

"Yes. You are appointed assistant annihilator of the submarine Huron."

CHAPTER XVII.

CAPTAIN RANGLER RE-APPEARS.

Leaving Jeff at the wheel, with strict orders not to meddle with anything, the inventor preceded Tom into the torpedo room. He produced a bunch of keys and unlocked a metal closet, high up on one wall of the place. From this he produced a globe, about ten inches in diameter and a dull black in color.

From the top of it a small key projected. While Tom watched with fascinated interest, the inventor went into the extreme forward part of the torpedo room, which, of course, was right up in the bow of the Huron.

A cylindrical tube—not unlike the breech of a rapid fire gun—projected into the place, and the inventor rapidly adjusted several small wheels and valves. Then he opened the rear of the tube and motioned to Tom.

"We're about ready now," he said. "You might bring that torpedo from the rack."

He indicated a cage-like basket, in which he had placed the metal globe after taking it from the closet.

"The torpedo?" said Tom, looking about him.

Not unnaturally the boy was looking for one of the cylindrical, cigar-shaped implements of war, which he had always associated with the word "torpedo."

Mr. Ironsides smiled slightly.

"I mean that metal globe," he said.

"What! Is that a torpedo?" demanded Tom incredulously.

"Yes, and one twenty times more powerful than the Whitehead type in use in our navy to-day."

"But it looks more like a bomb than a torpedo. Where is its driving machinery? How does it go through the water?"

"You'll see all that in a minute. For many reasons, the ordinary type of torpedo is not much used for submarine work. So I had to go to work and think out a torpedo of novel design as well as a boat. That globe is the result. Thank you," as Tom handed it to him, using every precaution against dropping it, as you may be sure.

"Now, then," said Mr. Ironsides, drawing a brass tube out of the breech of the firing cylinder, "you see, I put this globe in this tube—this way."

As he spoke, he thrust the metal globe into the brass tube, which it fitted snugly. The key-like projection remained sticking out of the end of the tube, however.

"If the Huron was used for surface work," went on Mr. Ironsides, "she could, if her officers wished, handle and fire ordinary torpedoes. But to overcome the pressure at this depth, terrific driving force is necessary. To furnish this, I use compressed air superheated, coupled with an explosive gas, generated in the muzzle of the torpedo tube as the bomb passes through. Do you follow me?"

It is doubtful if Tom did. But, at all events, he grasped the main idea of the inventor's discourse.

"Now, then," went on Mr. Ironsides, "I am going to start the mechanism which combines the two elements contained in this globe into a death-dealing combination."

He twisted the key, and a clicking sound resulted like that which emanates from a mechanical toy when it is being wound up.

"We're all ready now," he declared finally. "The only thing left to do is to 'ram home,' as they say in the navy."

So saying, the inventor thrust the brass tube, containing the projectile, into the breech of the firing tube, in much the same manner as the brass cartridge is thrust into the breech of a naval gun.

Then he closed the breech and locked its mechanism with a sharp snap.

"Now, Tom Dacre, boy," he exclaimed, an exulting note in his voice, "we are ready for our up-to-date act of justice on yonder sunken wreck."

Tom caught the infection of his enthusiasm.

"In a few moments she will be blown to bits?" he questioned, marveling even while he spoke.

"Yes. If all goes well, that schooner will have ceased to exist at precisely," the inventor drew out his watch, "in precisely four minutes. I'm going to the conning tower. The firing lever and appliances are there. Do you wish to accompany me, or will you remain here?"

"I guess I'll go with you," rejoined Tom.

"Then hurry. It would be awkward if those gases in the bomb became uncontrollable before we had fired it from the Huron's side."

They found Jeff at the wheel, slowly circling the water-logged wreck, according to instructions. Tom glanced at the bulk of the half-sunken schooner with a kind of pity. In his mind she was dissolved into fragments already.

Mr. Ironsides, without a trace of haste in his manner, took the wheel from the Trulliber lad. He so manipulated the submarine that, within a few moments, she was at some distance from the sunken wreck, hovering like a hawk that is about to strike. Tom hastily described to the others his experiences in the torpedo room.

They listened with keen interest. Their discussion of what was to come was broken in upon by the inventor's voice.

"I guess we are about ready now," he said.

Tom fixed his gaze on the man. He stood at the wheel motionless. Without a very keen imagination it was easy to picture him as a kind of fate about to hurtle a deadly thunderbolt.

"Now!"

The word came suddenly, and was followed by an almost imperceptible movement of the inventor's hand to a polished quadrant. A lever moved swiftly across the shining sector.

Almost instantly a shock made the submarine quiver. Tom knew that the tremendous forces that were to drive the bomb through the water had been released.

"Watch the wreck, please. If all goes well, you'll see something worth watching."

It was Mr. Ironsides speaking again. The faces of the visitors to the submarine were speedily glued against the observation lenses.

Tom saw a white streak cut through the water, leaving a train of bubbles in its wake. Then came a jar, and he felt a queer sensation on his ear drums, but that was all. All except that right ahead of them the black bulk of the wreck seemed suddenly to dissolve into nothingness. It had been and—was not!

Obadiah Ironsides' twentieth century revenge on the object that had so nearly caused disaster to his wonderful diving craft was complete.

"It's like magic!" gasped Tom, hardly able to believe that the solid timbers had been entirely obliterated before his very eyes.

"It is magic," breathed the professor.

"Now, I think we may as well arise and note the effects of our shot," said Mr. Ironsides, in his usual matter-of-fact voice. Now that the shot had been fired, and had been successful, the slight flush of anxiety on his pale face had vanished, leaving it as icicle-like as ever.

Up they shot, at what seemed lightning speed.

They were on the surface almost before they realized it. The welcome light shone in through the conning tower lenses, and the sunlight sparkled on the dripping back of Mr. Ironsides' strange sea monster.

"Let us open the conning tower hatch and go out on deck," suggested the inventor, after notifying old Sam in the engine room to switch his power from the electrical motors to gasolene.

They were nothing loath to do so. Although the time had seemed short, they had been below the surface for some hours, and the air was beginning to feel stuffy.

Tom inhaled with delight the fresh atmosphere, and the cool breeze that swept over the lake. He took it in by great lungfulls. The others did the same.

A glance about at the surface of the water showed the terrible havoc the bomb had wrought on the submerged wreck. The surface of the lake in their vicinity was strewn with beams and bits of timber. The wreck had literally been blown into a thousand pieces.

All at once, Tom's attention was caught by something close at hand. At first he thought it was an ordinary bit of wreckage. He leaned over the chain-rail the better to view it. Suddenly, however, he recoiled with a cry of horror. The object, lazily bobbing on the surface, had suddenly turned upward.

Then Tom saw that what had attracted his attention was the body of a man, undoubtedly one of the unfortunates who had been caught below decks when the schooner sank. And now the bomb had set him free from his tomb.

Even as Tom's horrified gaze rested for an instant on the grisly object, it vanished, leaving a widening circle of wavelets about it. Instinctively, Tom bared his head.

"I am saying farewell to a brave man," he said, as the others hastened to his side to inquire the reason of his sudden cry.

As there was no reason for lingering in the vicinity, the Huron, soon after, was put under full speed, and under her powerful engines she passed through the straits before sundown.

Supper was eaten, and Tom once more emerged on deck before the after-glow had faded. He gazed about him abstractedly. The lad was sorely troubled. Now that the excitement of the novel trip on the submarine had worn off, thoughts of his brother's plight and of Sandy's misfortune came back to him with redoubled force.

All at once—to the westward—a dark cloud appeared against the glowing sky.

"Smoke!" decided Tom. "Some craft coming this way."

For half an hour or more he watched till the outlines of a tug appeared from the direction in which he had first noticed the column of vapor.

Tom watched her without especial interest for a time, and then the blood began rushing through his pulses in leaps and bounds. He bounded to his feet and rushed to the conning tower. Thrusting his head over the hatchway, he gave a shout that electrified those below.

"Captain Rangler's tug is dead ahead and coming toward us!" he announced.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A MAN OF QUEER MANNERS.

At just about the same moment that the submarine encountered the sunken wreck, Jack Dacre, as well as Sandy MacTavish, was sucked into the black and treacherous slime of the slough. As our readers will recall, we left both lads in about as bad a situation as could be imagined.

Jack's cries were beginning to grow feeble, when aid appeared from an unsuspected quarter. From the margin of woods surrounding the swamp, there suddenly emerged the figure of a rough-looking man. He carried a gun and was accompanied by two savage looking dogs.

"Hullo! What's the trouble here?" he demanded in an amazed voice, as his gaze lighted on the two struggling lads. By this time the marsh had engulfed Sandy to the arm-pits. Jack was in almost as bad a fix.

"For goodness' sake, help us out of this," implored Jack. "We can't hold out much longer."

The man grunted, but seemed in no hurry to aid them.

"You must be a fine pair of young fools," was his comment. "Any one could see that there was quicksands in thar'."

"Who are you, and how did you come here?" he demanded roughly the next minute.

"We'll tell you all that when you get us out of this," ejaculated Sandy. "Mon! mon, will ye stand glowerin' there, while we are sinking deeper all the time?"

"Serves you right for blundering in there," was the astonishingly heartless response.

The man turned away, whistling to his two dogs, and vanished in the woods. But, after all, the action was not as cold-blooded as it appeared. Instead of leaving the two lads to their fate, as it first had appeared, the man presently returned with some sticks of young timber.

He thrust these toward the two immersed lads, grumbling, the while, savagely to himself. Neither Jack nor Sandy was, fortunately, too weak to take advantage of this grudging aid. It was well that this was so, for the man didn't appear anxious to help them further. But when both lads had caught on to the sticks, with a firm hold he did bestir himself to pull and tug, and soon, what with their own struggles and the man's efforts, the two lads were out of the marsh. They were pitiful objects, indeed, as they stood on its marge. Black mud clung to them, like a sort of sticky paste. Their faces were strained and white. Perspiration poured in rivulets down them. Besides, they were shaky and unnerved from their ordeal.

But their appearance in no wise seemed to move the pity of the man. He laughed grimly as his two dogs flew furiously at the two newly rescued lads.

"Lucky for you that them dogs didn't come on you when I wasn't by," he said, filling and lighting a short pipe, and seating himself on a log. "They'd have torn you limb from limb. Now, then," he demanded, with a sudden accession of fierceness, "who are you, anyhow? What are you doing on Castle Rock Island?"

"We've escaped——" began Sandy, when something warned him that it would be as well to disguise the true state of affairs from this gruff, unsympathetic sort of individual.

"Oh, ho! You've escaped, have you?" said the man, with an ugly leer. "And from what, pray?"

"From our boat. It was wrecked," volunteered Jack, with a sufficient statement of facts to cover the case. "But is this Castle Rock Island, really?"

"Of course, it is. Didn't I say so?"

Jack and Sandy exchanged astonished glances. So they had reached their destination, after all. But in what an astonishing way!

"Well," glowered the man, "is that all?"

"I guess so," responded Jack, "except that we fell into the marsh while looking for a place where we could get some food and rest. We've got money to pay for it," he added, thinking that the man might live nearby.

The fellow's eyes lit up at the mention of money.

"How much you got?" he questioned.

Jack displayed a roll of bills of comfortable proportions, for, as we know, the rascals on the tug had not thought it worth while to search their young prisoners.

The man's eyes dwelt on the money as if in speculation. He remained silent for a few seconds. Then he spoke in his gruff way.

"Come with me," he said, rising to his feet.

"Do you think he is all right?" whispered Sandy, as they prepared to follow.

"Frankly, I don't. But we must trust to luck. We've got to get something to eat, and I imagine he is some sort of a woodsman. He may have a good heart, even if his manners are gruff."

"A-weel," sighed Sandy, "I don't trust him a bit more than you do. But we maun find some place to rest, I'm thinking."

So they plunged into the woods after the man, who was looking back at them interrogatively. He strode along at some distance ahead. Ever and anon he would glance back to see if they were following. But he didn't speak.

They must have progressed thus for half an hour or more, when they suddenly emerged upon the shore from the trail they had hitherto been following. Before them spread the waters of the lake in all their vast solitude. Behind them lay the forest, and to their right towered a great mass of rocks and craggy cliffs, that were wild and primeval looking. But it was none of these things that transfixed the gaze of the two lads, and, tired as they were, filled their eyes with eager interest.

What captured their attention, to the exclusion of every other feature of the landscape, was a tower of rough outline, about forty feet or more in height, which stood directly in front of them on a little rocky promontory.

It was built of stone, which had, apparently, been taken from the cliffs adjoining. A rough flight of steps, also of stone, encircled it outside, reaching to the summit. The ruins of what had once been a light-house lantern on the top proclaimed the uses to which the tower had been put before it fell into ruin. About its base creepers grew luxuriantly; but they had been cleared away at one point, where a door, heavily studded with iron rivets, was observable.

"Do you live here?" inquired Jack, as the man walked up to the door with the confident air of possession.

"I do—yes. If you want anything to eat, you had better come inside."

Such was the gruff rejoinder of the man, as he inserted a key in the door and swung it open. Evidently, the outside stairs were not used by him. A closer view, in fact, showed that they were tottering, like the rest of the structure, and probably were not safe.

Sandy and Jack exchanged swift glances, as the man undid the door. Was this some trap that they were being enticed into? But, hungry and faint as they were, the lads were not in a critical mood. While they still hesitated, the man turned round.

"Well," he said grumpily, "are you comin' in, or ain't you? I can't wait here all night."

"We'll be right with you," said Jack with alacrity, stepping forward and resolutely putting his fears behind him, "I hope dinner's ready," he added by way of a small pleasantry.

But in return for his smiling remark, the man only mumbled something, and whistled to his dogs. Then, followed by the two lads, he entered the ancient door, which groaned on its hinges, with what Jack's excited mind interpreted as a note of warning. But it was too late to turn back now.

As the man swung the door to behind them and locked it, Jack felt that they were committed to the adventure, come what might.

CHAPTER XIX.

WITHIN THE TOWER.

Inside they found themselves in a circular room. The floor was bare, but fairly clean. Facing the door was a rusty stove, with an iron pot and a kettle smoking and steaming on it, in a way that gave promise of a speedy meal. For the rest, there was a rough table and several chairs set about in disorder. In one corner was a tall cupboard.

Their host approached this receptacle after he had set down his gun, and produced three tin cups, three tin plates and the accompanying knives and forks. Likewise, he set out bread, and salt and pepper casters. This done, he took off the pot from the stove, and with a ladle, dished out upon each dish a fairly generous portion of a kind of stew.

"There's water in that bucket in the corner," he volunteered, sitting down and beginning to shovel in his food with scant courtesy.

The lads filled their tin cups at the receptacle mentioned, and then fell to on the food, with what appetites may be imagined. Whatever their hardships had been, they had not interfered with their abilities as trenchermen.

While they ate, the man eyed them curiously, but he said nothing. In fact, once or twice, when Jack looked up and caught the fellow furtively eying them, the other looked hastily away, as if he had been caught in some mean act. In this manner the meal was eaten, and when it had been despatched the man spoke.

"You said something about paying," he grunted in his mumbling tones.

"Certainly," rejoined Jack; "how much do we owe you?"

"Well, now, considering that I have to use powder and shot for everything I get, and that you two lads have made a terrible hole in my larder, I don't think a dollar apiece is too much."

The man looked up, as if he half-expected the lads to refuse to pay this exorbitant sum. But Jack readily paid him, only remarking that they felt so much better that he would willingly have paid even more.

"And noo," began Sandy, "the question arises, what comes next?"

"Yes, how are we to reach some point where we can communicate with our friends?" asked Jack.

The man hesitated. Then, as if an idea had suddenly occurred to him, he spoke:

"There's a small steamer that rounds the islands regularly. She'll touch in here this evening. Tell you what you do—give me another dollar each, and I'll let you sleep upstairs in a room I have till it's time for you to catch the boat."

This answer seemed straightforward enough. At all events, Jack and Sandy felt so sleepy after their meal that they were ready to accept it without much hesitancy. Two more dollars were passed over, and then the man conducted them to a stairway at one side of the room. He mounted it, mumbling to himself all the while; but by this time the lads had come to the conclusion that the fellow was a sort of harmless eccentric, and did not pay much attention to his manner.

Up and up they climbed, circling the tower several times, it seemed, till they arrived at a small door opening off the staircase. The man opened this, and showed them into a room. It contained a rough bed and some scanty furniture. It had one window high up in the wall—too high for the lads to see out; but it was well-lighted and ventilated—the latter for the excellent reason that the window was always open. It was not glazed.

"There, I reckon you can make out there, all right," said the man.

As he prepared to leave the room, Jack reminded him of his promise to awaken them in time for the inter-island boat, in case they overslept.

"Don't worry," said the man, with more of a friendly air than he had yet assumed, "I'll take good care of you."

There was a sinister intonation in the way that he said this last which did not escape Jack's quick ear. But it was too late to worry now. If the man meant them harm, they were fairly in his power; and the only thing to do was not to let him see that they suspected him.

Removing their shoes, coats and waistcoats, the lads flung themselves down on the bed. Sandy, after mumbling a few sleepy comments on the strange place in which they found themselves, dropped off into profound slumber. Jack, in a pleasant sort of half-waking, half-sleeping doze, remained alert some minutes longer.

It was just as he was dropping off to sleep in good earnest that he thought he heard a queer noise at the door.

"It sounds as if some one had locked it on the outside," he muttered drowsily.

He started to arouse himself to investigate; but in the very act of summoning his drowsy faculties the boy's weariness overcame him. His tired limbs mutinied, his eyes closed, and he was off to dreamland as soundly as Sandy.

Hardly had he dozed off, when from the woods through which their guide had conducted them a short time before, Walstein and Dampier and two of the crew of the tug emerged. They had left Rangler in charge of the craft, with instructions to cruise in the vicinity and see if he could make out any trace of the fugitives. They themselves had made for the abandoned light-house to organize a thorough search of the island.

As they drew near to the light, the man who had entertained Jack and Sandy emerged from the door.

"Hullo, there, Bill Barkentin," hailed Walstein. "What's the news?"

"What's yours?" grumbled the man ungraciously, in much the same manner he had addressed the boys.

"The same old bear," laughed Dampier. "How is our prisoner getting along?"

"He's as obstinate as ever," was the grumbled reply. "Won't tell a thing about the government's plans in regard to us."

"You've still got him on close diet?" asked Walstein.

"Have I? Should say so. He's getting as thin as a rail; but he's just as obstinate as an old army mule. Won't tell nothing."

"Humph! Well, he'll talk after awhile. By the way, we'll have two other prisoners to join him before long."

"How's that?" grunted Bill Barkentin, without betraying any special interest.

"Why, two boys whom we were holding for ransom have escaped," rejoined Walstein. "They fled from the tug, and are now on this island some place. You know the island better than any one else. When we've had something to eat you had better guide us all over it on a thorough search."

"No need to search," grunted Bill Barkentin as imperturbably as if what he had just heard was not news to him.

"How's that, Bill?" asked Dampier, in a sort of mocking voice. It was plain that he despised this taciturn old keeper of the rascals' rendezvous.

"'Cos they're here now," announced Bill, replenishing his pipe, which had gone out.

"What!" exclaimed Dampier. "Do you mean to say, you old barnacle, that you've actually got those two lads in the tower?"

"Yep. They're tucked in their little bed at this very minute. I found 'em stuck in a marsh about four miles from here. As they had some money, I brought 'em here. I thought that after they got to sleep I'd get what coin they had and then turn them loose. But now I see things is different. They are your game, eh?"

"Never mind about the money, Bill," said Dampier, whose sallow face was beaming with ferocious delight; "the money they have is yours, Bill—all yours. Oh, what a stroke of luck, eh, Walstein?"

"I should say so," assented the leonine-headed ruffian. "Have you got them locked in, Bill?"

"We-el, you know Bill Barkentin," grinned the other, with a wink and placing one finger to the side of his flat nose, "I'll guarantee that they are safe for as long as we want to keep 'em penned up."

"Which will be till we hear from old Chisholm Dacre regarding how much he is willing to give up for his precious nephew and his chum," said Dampier.

Soon after this, the rascals, in whose power the unconscious boys were once more, entered the old light-house.

They made a hearty meal, with many jests and much laughter, in which the mysterious prisoner, who has been mentioned by them once or twice before, figured largely. To judge by their conversation, he was a man toward whom they cherished the utmost hatred and malice.

CHAPTER XX.

THE ENEMY'S VICTORY.

Evidently the peculiar color which the submarine craft Huron had been painted answered its purpose of practical invisibility excellently. For the tug came right on, driving straight for the diving boat, without any of those on board apparently being aware of the proximity of the queer vessel.

Tom's excitement and suspense were painful as the tug drew closer. Were his brother and his chum on board? How big a crew did the tug carry? What would be the outcome of the plan, which had been determined upon after a consultation, and which was nothing more nor less than to hold up the tug and search her thoroughly.

Beside Tom in the conning tower stood Obadiah Ironsides, the professor and Jeff Trulliber. Rosewater had been pressed into service as an oiler in the engine room, while old Sam made some trifling adjustments of the machinery.

The party had retired to the conning tower, as they would be less conspicuous there than on deck, and those on the tug would not take alarm. It had been agreed upon, likewise, that Mr. Ironsides was to carry on the preliminary questioning of Rangler, or whoever was on board the tug, as in that case, the rascals would not take alarm and conceal Jack and Sandy, in the event that they were on board.

Closer and closer ranged the tug, a great white "bone" creaming at her bow. As she got within hailing distance, Mr. Ironsides emerged from the conning tower and took up a position on the submarine's deck.

"Ahoy! On board the tug!" he shouted, placing his hands funnel-wise to his mouth.

"Ahoy, yourself!" came back a rough voice from the pilot-house of the tug. "What sort of a sea-going peanut roaster is that?"

"The submarine boat Huron. I wish to speak to you."

"Have to wait till some other time, then. We're busy now," was the rejoinder, and the window of the pilot-house, which had been raised while Rangler thrust out his head, was slammed down once more.

"Hold on, there!" cried Mr. Ironsides. "I must speak to you, I tell you. It may have serious consequences for you if you don't stop."

This speech was greeted with a derisive laugh from the tug. But presently it slackened speed and the submarine crept up to it.

"Well, what do you want?" asked Rangler harshly, leaning out of his pilot-house and looking down on the gray whaleback of the submarine.

"Food and water," said Mr. Ironsides, with excusable prevarication. "We have run out of them."

"Serves you right for navigating the lakes in that fool contrivance. Well, I know the law. I suppose I'll have to give 'em to you. Make fast and come on board."

Tom, who could see all that was transpiring from the conning tower without danger of being seen, saw Mr. Ironsides spring lightly on board after he had made fast a rope that two of the crew of the tug threw to him.

"Wonder what he is going to do?" thought the boy to himself, as he saw the inventor leaping up the stairway leading to the pilot-house. He entered the structure and could be seen eagerly conversing with Captain Rangler.

As a matter of fact, the inventor had decided on a bold stroke. It was nothing more nor less than to state his mission to Captain Rangler in so many words, and represent himself as having been sent out by the police of Rockport.

"Captain Rangler," he began, "my name is Ironsides. I am connected in an unofficial capacity with the police of Rockport, from which place you are suspected of having kidnapped two boys. I demand that I be allowed to search your craft."

"What sort of talk is this?" blustered the captain. "Me—Captain Rangler—kidnap boys? You're mistaken, my friend. I'm not in any such business."

"In that case, you will allow me, of course, to search your craft?"

"Certainly; go as far as you like. But I'd have you know that it hurts my feelings to be accused of such rascality."

The crafty ruffian actually put on an injured air, as he said this, as if he had been a man of the highest integrity, righteously angered at a false accusation.

So cleverly did he act, that even Mr. Ironsides was dumfounded.

"I wonder if Tom Dacre wasn't mistaken?" he thought to himself. "This fellow appears to be honest enough."

Aloud, however, he said:

"Thank you, captain. I'll take advantage of your offer and search your craft. You understand, of course, that this is no aspersion on your character. My orders are to search every craft on the lake in search of the kidnapped lads."

"Oh, that's all right," said Captain Rangler easily. "Make yourself at home. Go over this here boat from stem to stern. I'll warrant you'll find nothing but what's legitimate."

Mr. Ironsides started from the cabin to begin his search. As he did so, Captain Rangler, who was leaning out of the pilot-house window once more, gave a perceptible start, and uttered an exclamation.

Tom had, incautiously, ventured too close to the lens of the conning tower, in his anxiety to see what was going forward. Captain Rangler, who, up till that moment, had really believed that Mr. Ironsides was a police investigator, instantly recognized the lad, and also guessed what was on foot.

"Jim," he called to a sailor, "I want you to conduct Mr. Ironsides all over this craft. Take him everywhere. Don't leave a spot uncovered—and Jim"—the sailor came closer, while Rangler sank his voice to a whisper—"don't let him come on deck again. You understand?"

The sailor nodded, and joining Mr. Ironsides, made a great show of conducting him over the tug. They started in at the cabin, and by turns visited every nook and corner of the craft. The last place visited was the forecastle, a stuffy little hole in the bow of the tug.

"Well," said Mr. Ironsides, "I really see no trace of any lads here. I guess there must be some mistake about it."

"I guess so, sir," said the sailor respectfully; "must have got the wrong craft, sir."

"So it would seem. However, my man, here's a dollar for your trouble." The sailor touched his forelock and stuffed the bill into his pocket. As he did so, he exclaimed suddenly:

"Beg pardon, sir. Somebody on deck is calling me. Back in a minute, sir."

With monkey-like rapidity, he sprang toward a ladder, and in a flash was on deck.

"I guess I might as well go, too," thought the inventor, and was preparing to follow when a startling thing happened.

The hatch by which they had entered was suddenly clapped to.

"Here! Here!" shouted the inventor, thinking a mistake had been made. "Let me out. I'm——"

"You'll get out when we're good and ready," came a harsh voice from the other side of the hatch. At the same time the rasping sound of a bolt being secured on the outside came to the crestfallen inventor's ears.

While this scene was transpiring on the tug, Captain Rangler and two of his men had slipped from the stern of their craft down upon the deck of the submarine. Tiptoeing forward, as softly as cats, they gained the conning tower.

A sharp, metallic clang was the first intimation that Tom and his companions had that Captain Rangler once more held the upper hand. The hatch of the conning tower had been slammed to by the ruffian, and the outside fastenings—used when the submarine was in port—had been locked.

Tom Dacre and the others were as effectually prisoners on their own craft as Mr. Ironsides, the inventor, was in the dark and malodorous forepeak of the tug.

CHAPTER XXI.

"THERE IS A WAY—I MEAN TO TRY IT."

The bitter chagrin felt by the eldest Dacre boy and his companions at this sudden and disastrous turn in their affairs may be better pictured than written. Consternation was upon each face. The professor was the first to recover his wits.

"What do you expect to gain by such conduct as this, you rascal?" he cried at Captain Rangler and his men, who were grinning triumphantly through the lens of the conning tower at their unlucky prisoners.

"I'll see that you go to jail for your misdeeds, if ever I get a chance," shouted Jeff indignantly. As for Tom, he felt too heartsick to say a word. In addition to their plight, they could now be pretty certain that the inventor of the submarine was likewise a prisoner, and that, moreover, they were no closer to knowing anything of the fate of Jack and Sandy.

It is doubtful if Captain Rangler heard the remarks addressed to him; but, at any rate, he guessed the purport of them. He grinned mockingly in response, and shouted back:

"You'll never get the upper hand of us, Tom Dacre; try as you will."

His voice carried faintly, and Tom could not help feeling that his words appeared to bear a semblance of truth.

Just then old Sam and Rosewater, who had heard the disturbance, came running up from below.

"What's up? What's the matter?" demanded old Sam.

"Golly gracious, wha's happened now?" gasped Rosewater.

"More misfortunes," said Tom, with a quaver in his voice. "Those rascals have trapped Mr. Ironsides on board their craft and have imprisoned us on the submarine."

Old Sam whistled.

"Phew! We are in a fine fix, now. What do you suppose they mean to do with us?"

"I have not the least idea. Maybe they hardly know themselves. I guess all they wish to do is to keep us from informing the police of their rascality."

"Humph! Much good it would do, if all police were like the Rockport crowd," commented the professor. "What the scoundrels need after them is a detachment of Secret Service men."

"I wish we could notify them somehow. But it doesn't look as if we could do anything now but await the outcome of the rascals' plans," sighed Jeff.

"Dem fellers would look mighty hansum decoratin' some trees," put in Rosewater indignantly.

"Well, I guess they have made up their minds what to do," said Tom presently. "See, there goes Captain Rangler and those other two rascals back on board the tug."

"I wonder where they have got Mr. Ironsides confined?" asked Sam disconsolately.

"It must be up in the forecastle. I saw him go down there with one of the sailors, and a short time later the fellow came up alone," volunteered Tom.

"Hullo! I guess they are going to take us in tow!" cried Jeff presently.

The imprisoned party in the conning tower watched eagerly while Rangler's men attached ropes to the bitts on the bow of the submarine, and, this done, the tug steamed ahead.

Presently the ropes tightened, and the submarine began to move through the water after the tug.

"Well! If this doesn't beat a three-ring circus!" exclaimed old Sam. "Here we are, shut up like a lot of babies, while the Huron, the fastest craft in America, is towed over the lake by an old tug."

The old man was boiling with indignation; so were they all, in fact. It was ignominious, to say the least—the ease with which they had been made captives.

"Where can they be going to take us?" asked Jeff.

"Canada, maybe," suggested Tom; "and then turn us loose in the wilds."

"I wouldn't be surprised if some such idea had entered their heads," agreed the professor, "but you must recollect that the Canadian coast is well patroled, and if a strange vessel landed there she would excite comment and investigation. If she hadn't papers, she would get into trouble."

"That's so," chimed in old Sam. "I guess it won't be Canada this trip. More likely to be one of their island hangouts."

"What will they do with us when they get us there?" inquired Jeff.

"I cannot guess any more than you," rejoined the professor. "Leave us there, maybe, while they make off to safety. We are a menace to them as long as we remain at large."

The others could not help but see it in this light. It was the logical thing for the gang of ruffians to do to dispose of such dangerous foes as Tom Dacre and his party had become. But how did they mean to do it? That was the engrossing question.

As has been said, it was sundown when the tug hove in sight. Now it grew dark with great rapidity.

"Well, we might as well put as bold a face as possible on our predicament," said the professor. "Let's have some light, Sam."

"All right," rejoined the old man. "I'll go below and turn on the dynamo."

In a few minutes a cheerful light flooded the submarine from stern to bow. Its rays streamed out through the lenses of the conning tower, and revealed an unwelcome sight. Two sailors from the tug, armed with rifles, were seated on the deck, smoking and making themselves as comfortable as possible. But they were unmistakably on the alert in case any attempt at escape was made.

"If I only knew how Jack and Sandy were faring, I'd feel better," said Tom, soon after this discovery had been made.

"You feel bettah, sah, if you hab some suppah," said Rosewater, thrusting his head into the conning tower from below. The faithful black had vanished some time before, unnoticed, and had devoted his time to preparing as good a meal as if nothing had happened to mar the harmony of life on the diving boat.

Despite their disturbed feelings, they all did justice to the meal, and actually felt a little better after it.

While they ate, the rushing of the water against the submarine's sides told them that they were still being towed, and at a good rate of speed, too. But of their destination they were, of course, as much in the dark as ever.

It must have been about ten o'clock that night that the motion ceased, and, peering out through the lenses, they could see lights flashing about on the deck of the tug. Evidently they were coming to an anchorage.

Looking in the other direction, they could now espy the dark, jagged outlines of some sort of land, although, of where they were, they had, of course, not the slightest idea. Old Sam inclined to the opinion—which turned out to be correct—that they had passed through the Straits of Mackinac and were in Lake Michigan.

Suddenly, from the shore, a bright blue light flashed out through the darkness. It appeared and vanished three times. The signal was answered from the tug. Soon afterward, although the prisoners on the submarine did not, naturally, know this, a boat was lowered from the side of the tug, and Captain Rangler, with a few of his worthies, was rowed ashore.

"What are you thinking of, Tom?" asked the professor late that same night.

The captives of the diving-boat had not retired to rest, but were sitting up in the lighted cabin, anxiously awaiting some sign as to what their fate was to be.

Tom had been silent for some time. He sat motionless, except when he made a few sketches with a stub of pencil on the back of an old envelope. It was clear to one who knew him that the boy was revolving some plan.

"I've been thinking that if only we had Mr. Ironsides on board to navigate the submarine, we might escape," said Tom.

"That's so," agreed Jeff; "if those rapscallions took after us, we could dive under and easily elude them."

"I'd rather fight 'em," declared old Sam stoutly.

"Well, what is your plan, Tom?" inquired the professor.

"My plan is to get Mr. Ironsides back on board," announced Tom quietly.

The sheer audaciousness of this proposal made even the staid professor emit a whistle of astonishment.

"Im-possible," he declared, with finality.

"Not at all, if we could get out of the submarine," persisted Tom.

"But we can't. Even if we unbolted a plate or one of the lenses and squeezed through, there are still two armed men on the deck. There is no way."

"There is a way, and I mean to try it," declared Tom. "Listen."

CHAPTER XXII.

A BIT OF MADCAP DARING.

"You mean that there is a way of escaping from this craft?" demanded old Sam incredulously. "Well, lad, I know the Huron pretty well, from her keel plates up, but I can't figure one."

"How about the torpedo tube?" inquired Tom calmly.

"Wow!" cried the old man. "I begin to get your meaning, now. But could it be done?"

"It can be tried," said Tom. "As I understand it, when the Huron is floating on the surface her torpedo tube is submerged to a depth of about four feet."

"Ker-rect," declared old Sam.

"The outer end is so devised that it is closed and water-tight till a torpedo is fired and shoves it open. It is this which enables the projectile to be loaded without endangering the flooding of the boat."

"Ker-rect again, my lad; go on. We're all listening. But you're wrong in one point. The torpedo tube is not opened by the passage of the torpedo through it. It is opened by the operation of a lever in the conning tower."

"So much the better," said Tom. "Now, then, my plan is this: I will creep into the torpedo tube. When I am inside it, one of you will close the inside end. The outer end will then be opened by Sam, who will remain by the opening lever. As the water rushes in, I will dive outward and shoot up to the surface. We know pretty well where Mr. Ironsides is confined. I shall swim to the bow of the tug and see what chance there is of getting him out. If there is any, you can rest assured that he will be back here within an hour."

"Bravo!" cried Sam. "That's a bully plan, my lad."

"Preposterous!" spoke the professor. "I shall not permit you to risk your life in any such mad fashion."

"It won't be risking it," protested Tom; "at any rate, none of us can be worse off than we are here. As for the danger, it's no more dangerous than taking a dive off a springboard, only, in this case, the process is reversed. I shall go up, instead of down."

The upshot of it was that Tom had his way. He kicked off his shoes and all his garments but his underclothes. Thus attired, he was ready for his great attempt.

"But how on earth are you going to get back on board again?" exclaimed the professor, just as all was ready.

Oddly enough, none of them had thought of this, and, for a moment, the objection threw cold water on their hopes. But it seemed that Tom had figured this out, too. But he was not quite ready to announce it.

"Friends, will you trust me for getting in again, if only I can rescue Mr. Ironsides?" he said simply and without bravado.

"You bet we will, lad," quoth old Sam heartily. "A lad with a figure-head like you on his bows ought to be able to carry anything through."

Tom, the professor and Jeff then descended to the torpedo-room, while old Sam stood ready at the lever, which, at the signal from below, was to be so manipulated as to throw open the outer end of the tube.

"Good-by, and good luck," said the professor, with a warm clasp of the hand, as the inner end of the tube was opened and Tom crept into its narrow confines.

"It's so-long,—not good-by," laughed the lad lightly. "All ready, now, professor. Close the inner door and give the signal as soon as you like."

The metal fastenings closed behind Tom with a clash. He lay in total darkness within the tube, which was just large enough to permit him to lie outstretched at full length.

"I'm a human torpedo with a vengeance," thought the lad, as he awaited in the darkness the opening of the outer door of the tube. Thinly clad as he was, the metal chilled his skin. For the first time since he had embarked on the adventure Tom felt a slight nervous thrill run through him.

Suppose he should be caught in the mechanism at the mouth of the tube? In that case he would drown as miserably as a rat. These and a dozen other thoughts ran through his excited mind, as he lay there waiting, through what was really only a short period, but which seemed an eternity.

Suddenly a slight click could be heard. Tom braced himself; the outer door was about to open and the water would rush in on him. He drew a long breath, filling his lungs to the bursting point. The next instant the outer door of the tube was opened and in rushed the water. It seemed to Tom as if he had been struck by a steam-hammer, so great was its force in the confined place. But he kept his wits and struck out, and in a flash, as it seemed, he was on the surface of the water outside the submarine.

The first move of his daring game had been accomplished. Far more difficult, however, was what lay beyond.

Fortunately, it was pitchy dark. As he came to the surface, Tom noticed that the air smelled sulphurous and heavy. He decided that a thunderstorm was brewing. In fact, he presently became aware of livid, snake-like flashes afar off.

Tom trod the water for a time while he looked about him. He was quite close to the bow of the submarine, and, by stretching out his hand, could have touched her sides.

Suddenly, a sound that he recognized as snoring smote on his ear. It came from the guards who had been posted on the deck of the diving-boat.

"Good!" thought Tom. "So far, everything is fine. Now, if the luck will only hold, I'll have Mr. Ironsides on board in no time."

He struck out for the tug, which could be made out—a dark blot on the water—at no considerable distance. He speedily reached her side and snuggled in under the guard rail, where he was out of sight, till he could get the "lay of the land."

Two men were talking on deck. Tom listened intently.

"Well, Hick," came one voice, "it looks like a lonely watch for you and me."

"It does that, Joe. Here's the skipper ashore, and all the others gets a chance to stretch their legs but us. We've got to stay and guard that pesky submarine fellow in the forepeak."

"He won't take much guarding, I'm thinking," was the rejoinder; "that padlock's good and tight, and it's too warm down in there fer him to indulge in strenuous exercise."

"Tell you what," struck in the other man, "we're alone, and no one can report to the captain. Let's have a game of cards to while away the time. There's a deck of pasteboards in the skipper's cabin, and we can sit down there, snug and sociable."

"That's a good idea. I'd like to get them two chaps off the submarine to join us. I guess their watch is as lonely as ours."

"I'd like to get 'em, too. But the skipper's taken the only boat. The same one those two kids ran off with."

The voices died away, and the two guardians of the tug evidently had gone below to indulge in their game of cards.

Tom's heart beat high with hope. His plan was succeeding beyond even his expectations. He had confirmation of the fact that Mr. Ironsides was imprisoned in the forepeak, and then, too, the only men on the ship were safe astern engrossed in a game.

One other thing in their conversation had struck Tom sharply. "The boat those two kids ran off with."

That must mean that Jack and Sandy had escaped. No other interpretation could be put on it. But where were the two lads? Tom would have given a lot to know right then.

But it was no time for speculation. The necessity for action was immediate. At any moment, for all he knew, the men might come back from the shore, and then "good-by" to his hopes of freeing the inventor.

The lad crept along the side of the tug till he reached the bow. Then he clambered up the anchor-chain, and in a jiffy stood—a wet, half-clothed figure—on the fore deck.

"I must look like a ghost or something, in these white clothes," thought the lad to himself, as he felt about in the darkness for the forescuttle. Finally he found it, and softly tapped on it.

"Who's there?" came a voice from below, which he delightedly recognized as that of Mr. Ironsides.

"Hush! It's me—Tom Dacre!" whispered the boy. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, but I am weak from lack of food and the heat in this place."

"I'll soon have you out of there," comforted Tom. "Just trust in me."

"I will, my boy," came the rejoinder. "You inspire one with confidence."

Tom, as well as he could in the darkness, examined the padlock. It was a heavy one, but the hasp seemed to be more or less loose. Possibly Mr. Ironsides' efforts to escape had had that effect. At any rate, Tom thought that if only he could get the instrument with which to do it, he could pry up the hasp and free his friend.

But the question was, where to obtain that implement. While he was still casting about in his mind, a heavy footfall resounded, and, from round the corner of the pilot-house a figure emerged, making directly for the boy.

CHAPTER XXIII.

BRAINS AND GRIT—A COMBINATION HARD TO BEAT.

Tom's heart beat like a trip-hammer. Discovery and failure of his enterprise seemed almost inevitable. But he retained presence of mind enough to slip behind the big steam windlass while the man advanced.

The fellow was one of those left to guard the tug, and was more vigilant than Tom had supposed would be the case, judging by the conversation he had overheard. He had come forward to see that all was well.

Apparently he had not seen Tom, thanks to the darkness and the fact that he had just emerged from a lighted cabin. He walked up to the scuttle, however, and rapped on it with his knuckles in much the same way that Tom had done.

The boy's blood almost froze in his veins, as, in response to the man's rappings, he heard Mr. Ironsides' voice come from below.

"Hurry up, Tom. Get me out of here, quick! I can't stand it much longer."

"Gee whiz, the poor chap's gone crazy," muttered the man, to Tom's intense relief. "Well, I've no orders, except to keep him in there, crazy or not, so I'll just see that the fastenings are all right, and then go back to the game."

He drew a hatchet from his belt, and gave the nails that held the loose hasp a few blows with it. As he was doing this, clumsily enough in the darkness, he hit his thumb a hard blow. Tom heard an exclamation and a volley of strong language.

"Confound it," exclaimed the man, flinging the hatchet from him in a rage, "that's the second time in a week I pounded that thumb. Bad luck to it."

He strode off toward the stern once more, leaving Tom in a state of joy that may be imagined, for, in the flung hatchet, Tom had just the very tool he wanted to liberate Mr. Ironsides.

Guessing that the man would not be back for some time, now that he had, as he thought, made certain that all was secure, Tom lost no time in finding the hatchet and went to work on the hasp. As he had suspected, it didn't take very long to work it loose. Then, placing the blade of his implement under it, he gave it a good wrench. Out came the hasp, as easily as if it had been fastened in cheese instead of solid wood.

The next instant Mr. Ironsides was by Tom's side, and the two were shaking hands warmly by the side of the opened scuttle. It was no time for the interchange of words, but Tom told him swiftly just what had happened. The inventor's praise of the brave, resourceful lad was warmer than ever.

Mr. Ironsides, who had some changes of apparel on board his craft, rapidly divested himself of his clothes, as Tom had done.

"I'll leave them behind as souvenirs," he said, giving the pile of garments a shove with his foot.

This done, they both slipped silently over the bow, and dropped into the water. As they did so, a rumble of thunder was heard, and a vivid flash of forked lightning split the sky.

"We're in for a storm, all right," commented Tom.

"So much the better," said the inventor, as they swam side by side toward the submarine, "the worst storm can't hurt the Huron. All I have to do is to sink a few feet, and the waves can rage as they like. They don't bother her."

Excessive caution was necessary as they neared the submarine. The two sentinels might still be asleep, and then, again, the noise of the approaching storm might have awakened them. In any event, the two adventurers made no more noise than was unavoidable as they neared the side of the diving craft.

They swam round to the bow of the Huron and clambered cautiously out of the water. Tom wished that he had told Sam to turn out the lights when he left the craft, for the rays from the conning tower shone out brightly, illuminating the decks with a radiance almost like day.

But the light showed them one thing, at least. This was that the two sentries were still sound asleep, doubtless never imagining for a moment that there was the slightest chance of those on board the diving craft receiving help. Indeed, if it had not been for Tom's ingenuity and courage, this would have been the case.

Noiselessly, almost, the two adventurers made for the conning tower. They crept silently along over the deck in their bare feet and gained the helmet-like structure without a hitch occurring.

"Now to open up our prison," whispered Tom, as Mr. Ironsides examined the bolt by which Captain Rangler had imprisoned them.

It was furnished with a lock, but, luckily, Captain Rangler had had no key to fit it. The lock, in fact, was not needed, so long as the inmates of the submarine were within. But now Mr. Ironsides slid back the bolt without difficulty and opened the hatch.

He had just opened it, and was about to step within, when one of the sentries awakened. At the same instant came a flash of lightning. It showed the man two white-clad figures, hovering about the conning tower.

A sudden access of superstitious terror seized him. So far as he knew, there was no possible way of emerging from the conning tower. These two white figures, then, must be beings from another world.

With a wild yell he flung himself into the water, and began swimming with might and main for the tug. His shouts aroused his companion. He, however, was cast in another mold. He realized almost instantly that an escape had been effected in some manner. Raising his rifle, he began firing at the two figures.

Raising his rifle, he began firing at the two figures.

"Duck, Tom," ordered Mr. Ironsides, "those bullets can't pierce the metal."

Bang! bang! bang! bang! bang!

The weapon the sentry was using was an automatic. The bullets flew in a constant stream. Tom counted ten. He knew the type of weapon, and knew, too, that when his magazine was exhausted the sentry would have to refill it.

"Now, then," he cried to Mr. Ironsides. "Now is our chance to grab him."

The two darted forward across the deck, and, before the sentry could reload, they were upon him. Tom was in no mood to be merciful.

"Can you swim?" he demanded of the fellow, who gave in without a struggle.

"Y-y-y-y-yes!" responded the other, with chattering teeth.

"Then over you go!" cried Mr. Ironsides. One! Two! Three!

Overboard went that sentry with a resounding splash. The manner in which he struck out for the tug convinced Tom, rather to his relief, that the man was in no danger of drowning.

All this had occurred in such a short time that those below in the cabin had only arrived on deck in time to see the finale.

"Oh, Tom, is it really you?" cried Jeff, rushing forward and wringing Tom's hand warmly.

"Guess it is," laughed the boy; "and, best of all, here's Mr. Ironsides."

"You have succeeded beyond my wildest expectations," cried the professor. "It's wonderful, wonderful!"

But in the midst of the congratulations and joyous reunion, the bushes on shore suddenly began to spit fire. A volley also came from the tug. The first sentry had reached the vessel and reported what had occurred, and the two men left to guard Mr. Ironsides were not long in discovering that their bird had flown.

As for the fire from the shore, it came from Captain Rangler and the others in the tower, who had guessed instantly, when the sentry opened fire, that something had happened to free their prisoners.

Bullets spattered on the water about them, and pinged on the metal deck of the Huron.

"Wow! This is a regular bee-hive!" exclaimed Mr. Ironsides.

"We must cast off without delay," cried Tom. "They have taken the alarm with a vengeance."

Suddenly, from the shore, the brilliant light of a Bengal torch flooded the whole scene with a bright blue glare.

Tom darted forward and cast off the towing ropes, which still attached the submarine to the tug. In the meantime, Sam had the engines started once more.

The lad's post, while he was casting off the towline, was not a bed of roses. Although he crouched behind the metal bits, he could hear the rattle of lead all about him. Having cast off the ropes, there was nothing for him to do but to await his chance to regain the conning tower. The others had, by this time, sought its shelter as there was no use in risking death in that hailstorm of bullets. Mr. Ironsides' first act had been to lower the steel bullet-proof shades, specially designed for protecting the conning tower lenses in just such an emergency. These "shades" had slits pierced in them so that the steersman could see out without much danger of being hit, even in the hottest fire.

Suddenly the Bengal light died down. Darkness ensued for an instant while those on shore lighted another one. Under cover of the blackness, Tom darted for the conning tower. Mr. Ironsides was at the wheel, the engines were humming, everything was in readiness for an instant start. As Tom dashed into the conning tower, and the water-tight door was closed, another Bengal light was aflame. By its light the submarine became a hotter target than ever.

The bullets spattering against the metal skin of the craft sounded like hail on a tin roof. But, thanks to the secret alloy in the metal of which the Huron was constructed, they were deflected from her, hardly leaving a scratch to show where they had struck.

"Ready?" yelled Mr. Ironsides down the speaking tube to Sam in the engine room.

"Ready, sir!" bellowed back the engineer of the Huron.

"Then brace yourselves for a dive," commanded the inventor.

A mighty, hissing sound ensued, as the tanks filled. The Huron dipped by the nose, and sank gradually, as the inventor, once below the surface, didn't wish to risk a collision with the bottom, and he did not know how much water they had off shore.

After the exciting scenes through which they had just passed, the depths seemed calm and peaceful and soothing to the nerves. Obadiah switched on the searchlight and raised the bullet-proof "shades," and they were able to look out once more at the glass-green vastness about them.

It was not till then that old Sam came up from below.

"Beg pardon, sir," said he to Mr. Ironsides, "but I know that there island, sir."

"So it was an island, eh?" said Mr. Ironsides. "What island was it, Sam?"

"Castle Rock Island!" burst out Tom.

"Yes, sir; that was it, for a fact," said old Sam. "I recognized it by the ruined tower, when the light flared up and showed it."

"Then that is the place where Captain Rangler and that outfit make their headquarters!" exclaimed the professor.

"Yes, and I'll bet a doughnut that that is where Jack and Sandy are confined!" burst out Tom, with blazing eyes.

"Mr. Ironsides, we cannot run off and leave them like this!" he continued in an impassioned way.

"I agree with you, Tom. But what are we to do?"

"Hang about till daylight, and then cruise round the island. We may see some signs of them. Judging from what I overheard on the tug, there is a bare chance they may have escaped."

"Tom Dacre, you are a brave lad," said the inventor, for the second time that night; "and, better still, you mix brains with your grit. That's a combination that's hard to beat in man or boy."

CHAPTER XXIV.

"COWARD!"

"Sandy!"

"Sandy!"

"SANDY!"

"Well, what is it?"

Sandy MacTavish sat up on the bed in the tower room to find Jack bending over him.

It was pitchy dark. So soundly had the exhausted lads slept that they had taken no account of the hours.

"Hoot mon!" exclaimed the Scotch lad, wide-awake in an instant, "it's nicht."

"Yes, it is night," rejoined Jack; "we must have slept for hours and hours."

"I hope that mon didnae call us to take that steamer."

"Sandy, I don't believe there is any steamer."

"What!"

"I mean what I say. This looks to me like a trap."

"What, another one?"

"Hush! Listen to me. Just before I dropped off to sleep, I've a kind of a shadowy recollection of hearing that door being locked."

"And you didna investigate?"

"I'm ashamed to say I didn't. Not that it would have done any good, anyhow. I was too sleepy, I guess. But when I woke up, just now, I went over to the door, and——"

"It is locked."

"You're right. And it's stout and firm, too."

"Let's shout. It may be an accident."

"Not much chance of that. I've worse news for you, Sandy. Something that shows that it was by no accident that door became locked."

"How's that?"

Sandy sat on the edge of the bed, peering into the darkness where Jack's form was dimly visible.

"Walstein and Dampier are in this place!"

"Here? In this tower?" gasped Sandy incredulously.

"Yes, I heard them whispering at the door when I woke up. I recognized their voices. That rascal who took us in here has robbed me, too."

"He has, eh, the gloomeroon!"

"Yes, he took every penny out of my pocket while we were sleeping."

"How did you discover this?"

"I overheard something while they were whispering at the door that made me suspicious. I heard Walstein tell the man that he had got his share of whatever ransom they made out of us, when he picked my pockets."

"And then you looked in them?"

"Of course."

"And they were empty?"

"Sandy, you almost make me laugh. Of course they were."

"A-well, I dinna see what good money would do us now," quoth Sandy philosophically. "So they are going to hold us for ransom?"

"So I judged. Moreover, I learned from what I heard that we are on an island. Guess what one?"

"I dinna ken; De'il's Island, perhaps."

"On Castle Rock Island."

"Ho! ho! ho!" chuckled Sandy, who as ever refused to be downcast, "prisoners on my dad's ain property. That's a good joke."

"I fail to see where the joke comes in, just at present," rejoined Jack. "These are desperate men. They won't stop at anything. Sandy, we've got to find some way to get out of this mess."

"Well, we canna' go by the door."

"No; and even if it were open, those two dogs are guarding it. I heard that man who brought us here tell them to 'watch.'"

"Aye! They're a vera nice pair o' dogs, that. That is, they'd be nice if they had nickel steel muzzles on."

"Say, I wish you'd cut out your joking for a while, Sandy. This is a serious matter. We don't wish our friends to have to pay big ransoms for us. I'd hate to think of those rascals winning out after all, and getting rich on their scoundrelly ways, too."

"So would I," agreed Sandy, suddenly serious. "I tell you what, Jack, did you notice that spiral stairway outside the tower?"

"Yes, I noticed it when we came in. Why?"

"Weel, I'm thinking that yon bit window must look out on that same stairway."

"Suppose it does? How are we to reach the window?"

"Pile up some of the furniture on the bed. I guess we could easily reach it that way. It's no vera big, but I'm thinking we could manage to squeeze through, if we reached it."

"By George, Sandy, it's worth trying, anyhow. Let's set about it at once. But be careful not to make any noise moving the furniture. They might guess what we are at."

"That's so. We must be careful."

Very cautiously the two lads dragged the bed to a position below the small window. Then they piled the rickety bureau on that, and on the top of the last-named bit of furniture they stood a chair.

Sandy was the first to clamber up. It was slow work, for the stack of furniture was rickety, and threatened to collapse with a crash at any instant.

But at last he gained the summit and wriggled his active body half through the window. It was too dark outside to see much, and the lad determined on a characteristically bold step. Squirming through the small casement, he let himself drop, holding by his hands to the window-ledge, while he felt about beneath him with his feet.

To his intense joy, he could feel his toe-tips encounter a projection from the wall of the tower, which he judged must be the outside stairway they had noticed.

"Come on!" he called softly to Jack, and then he gently dropped. As he had suspected, he found himself standing on the stairway, which seemed to be staunch and firm.

Sandy tested it by rocking back and forth with his face to the rough wall of the tower. There was no tremor from the stones beneath him.

"Noo, if all goes well, we'll be free again," he muttered to himself, as he awaited Jack's coming.

Presently, in spite of the darkness, he saw the other lad's head projected through the window above him.

"Is it all right?" asked Jack in a low whisper.

"As fine as silk," came back the rejoinder. "Just climb through and then drop down beside me. It's a bonnie staircase."

"Funny they haven't got it guarded," commented Jack, as he obeyed Sandy's instructions, and in another instant was by his chum's side.

"It does seem queer. But maybe they never figured on our escaping by this way."

"Maybe that's it," agreed Jack, little guessing the real reason that no sentry was posted on the stone stairway.

"Now we'd better hug the wall going down," observed Sandy. "We don't know how far out the steps extend, and if we step off it would be awkward."

"Awkward! We might be killed!" exclaimed Jack.

"That's so, too," agreed Sandy in his usual matter-of-fact tones.

He seemed quite calm and cool, while Jack's heart was beating wildly and his pulses throbbing painfully.

"Now then, easy does it!" observed Sandy, and he began to descend the stone stairway with due caution.

Jack followed, keeping as close to the walls as he could. He could not help feeling conscious of the black void that yawned on the outer end of the projecting steps.

"Hoots! There's going to be a storm before long!" exclaimed Sandy suddenly, as a vivid flash of lightning ripped the sky.

It was the same that Tom was observing at that instant as he embarked on his perilous mission.

The flash, short as it had been, had sufficed to show Jack the true peril of their path. The stairs were not more than eighteen inches wide. At one time there may have been a balustrade on the outer edge. But, if this had ever been the case, it had vanished now. Jack felt an odd sinking at the pit of his stomach, as he saw the ground beneath them illumined for that brief molecule of time. It looked fearfully far off. He could not help picturing in his imagination the fatal results of a misstep.

But Sandy had none of these qualms of fear. He went right ahead, exercising due caution, it is true. But his mind was more busy with the real peril of discovery than with the thought that a false step might plunge its maker down to death.

He was proceeding thus, step by step, when he halted abruptly. His outstretched foot had encountered vacancy.

"Hoots! What's this?" thought Sandy.

At that instant came another flash. What it revealed made even the stout-hearted Scotch lad quiver and sicken for an instant.

No steps lay beyond his foot.

Instead, there was a dark void where several of the stones had fallen out. One step more, and Sandy would have been dashed to the earth, he did not know how many feet below. Perspiration broke out in tiny pin-points all over him.

What were they going to do?

Suddenly came another flash. It showed the lad that the gap was not in reality more than a few feet wide. On the farther side the steps went on again, encircling the tower.

Sandy made up his mind instantly as to their course of action. They must jump. On the ground it would have been nothing to an active lad of almost any age. But the idea of leaping that gulf high up on the side of the old lighthouse was a repellent one.

Then, too, there was the chance that the stones beyond might not be firmly fixed in place. In that case, the force of any one alighting on them might send them crashing down through space, bearing the jumper with them.

"A-weel, the longer I think about it, the worse it gets," thought Sandy, "I must jump and have it over with."

Jack was pressing close behind him now.

"What's the matter, Sandy?" he asked. "Why don't you go on?"

"Jack, we've got a bit of jumping to do," responded Sandy bravely. He knew that Jack's nature was rather imaginative and high-strung, and he dreaded the task of persuading the lad to jump. Yet it must be done. They could not turn back now. It was either discovery or else progression.

"You see, Jack," he explained gently, "one or two steps are missing right here. But there's some bonnie ones on the other side. Now, all we've got to do is to jump across, do you understand?"

As he spoke, the Scotch lad could feel Jack Dacre quiver as he pressed against him.

Don't think for a minute that the lad was a coward. He had proven his mettle on many a hard-fought diamond and gridiron. But his imagination was lively. Already Jack was picturing the consequences if the jump was miscalculated. Sandy saw that it would only increase the other's fears if they lingered.

By the light of the flash that had revealed his peril to him, the lad had calculated the jump. And now, with a murmured prayer on his lips, he made it.

Out into space, he flew, and the next instant landed safe and sound across the gulf. Nerve and pluck will conquer many such gulfs and voids.

Out into space he flew, and the next instant landed safe
and sound across the gulf.

But with Jack, it was different. Try as he would, he could not nerve himself for the leap into blackness. He felt he would almost rather be recaptured than face the jump.

"Come on!" cried Sandy encouragingly out of the darkness, "mon, it's too easy."

"I can't, Sandy! I can't!" came back Jack Dacre's voice.

Sandy noted that it held a quiver of real fear, and he didn't much blame his chum for it.

But Jack must be gotten across that chasm somehow. How was it to be done? Sandy tried to laugh off the perils.

"It isn't that," quavered Jack. "I'm not really afraid of it. I don't know what the feeling is. But Sandy, I can almost see myself lying at the foot of the tower with all my bones broken."

"Rubbish," laughed Sandy. "I'm not near as good at the broad jump as you, and yet I made it all right."

"I know. But—but—you go on, Sandy. Get help, if you can. I'm going back. I can't do it. I can't!"

Then Sandy had an inspiration.

"Coward!" he hissed, putting all the contempt he could into the words. "Coward!"

It was then that Jack Dacre found himself. Burning with anger and humiliation, he leaped forward into the night, to be caught by Sandy at the other side of the gulf.

"Good for you!" exclaimed Sandy, as the comrades clasped hands. "I knew you'd do it."

"Not if it hadn't been for you, Sandy," breathed Jack. "You saved me from recapture, and—and—something else."

CHAPTER XXV.

WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT?—CONCLUSION.

"Well, that explains why the stairway wasn't guarded, all right," commented Sandy, as they continued their way.

They had reached the bottom, and were about to strike off across the flat beach, when a figure suddenly emerged from the door of the lighthouse.

At the same time, as bad luck would have it, a flash of lightning from the nearing storm revealed the lads' figures clearly. But it did more than that, it showed Sandy that the man approaching them was followed by two or three others.

The fellow gave a shout as he saw the boys, and started for them. They dodged, and were about to make off, when another man blocked their path.

"Inside the light-house!" gasped Sandy. "It's empty, I think!"

"Good!" exclaimed Jack. "If we can get in there and bolt the door, we are safe against a siege."

The two lads doubled like hares and darted into the open door of the light-house. As they slammed it to, and slid the bolts, they could hear a yell of rage from without.

As Sandy had surmised, the place was empty. For the time, at any rate, they were safe. Moreover, there was food on the table, and this was a welcome sight to them.

"Queer, isn't it?" asked Sandy, with his mouth full, "that after taking all that trouble to escape, we should come back into the light-house after all."

"It certainly is," agreed Jack, likewise eating hastily. "Hark!"

"Open that door at once, you young varmints!"

"I'll break every bone in your bodies when I get hold of you," roared Walstein.

"Let 'em rave," grinned Sandy; "that door will withstand a siege."

"If it's anything like that one upstairs, it will," laughed Jack.

The lad felt a strange exhilaration. The feeling was born of the sense of his wits and his chum's being pitted against those of the ruffians outside. So far, the lads had won out unmistakably.

Walstein began to shout and bellow and pound on the door, using all sorts of bad language.

"Don't swear," shouted Sandy. "It won't do you any good. We're in here, and here we'll stay."

"Oh, you will, will you?" struck in another voice. It was that of Barkentin. "We'll see about that."

He gave a peculiar whistle. It rang shrill and clear through the night. The two dogs, on watch in the upper part of the tower, heard it. One of them gave an answering bark.

"After 'em, Rex! Sic 'em, Cæsar!" came Barkentin's voice.

A deep baying howl of peculiar savagery followed.

The two lads paled. Here was a peril they had quite forgotten. The two dogs, as they well knew, were ferocious to a degree.

Sandy looked about him. The most dangerous weapon in sight was a blunt dinner knife. The baying of the dogs grew louder. The pattering of their feet could be heard on the inner stairs of the light-house.

"Shut the door!" cried Jack, thinking they could cut off the stairs in this way.

"There isn't one," cried Sandy.

"Seize 'em, boys! Tear 'em, boys!" came Barkentin's voice from without.

The next instant the dogs burst into the room with savage, gleaming eyes, bristling hackles and mouths gaping redly.

Some big game hunter has said that there is no more dangerous creature in existence than a ferocious dog, whether rendered so by training or disposition.

The two that rushed on the boys were Great Danes, crossed with some fiercer breed, powerful as panthers, and even more to be dreaded.

Sandy snatched up the nearest thing to him—a dinner-plate. He hurled it with full force at the first dog, as it leaped straight for his throat. Jack raised a chair and fought desperately with his antagonist. Outside came Barkentin's raucous voice:

"Tear 'em, boys! Seize 'em, boys!"

The dogs hesitated for only an instant, as the boys met their attack. Then, speedily rallying, they rushed on them once more, with fangs bared and dripping, and sharp, white teeth exposed.

But the brief interval had given Sandy's sharp eyes time to observe something. In one corner of the room was what appeared to be a trap-door. Calling to Jack, he made for it, and raised it by an iron ring affixed to its upper side. It swung back, and the two boys flung themselves through it and slammed it behind them, just as the teeth of the foremost of the dogs almost closed on Jack Dacre.

The place in which they now found themselves was pitchy dark. But Sandy had some matches in his pocket. He kindled one, and the light showed them that they were in an underground tunnel of some sort.

They set off down it at a good speed, not knowing where it would lead them, but with a wild desire to leave those two dogs as far behind as possible. As they sped along, they could hear the creatures searching and whining at the trap-door.

The two lads had progressed for some distance—with alarming results to Sandy's matches—when they came to a door which barred their further progress. It was fitted with a bolt, and after an instant's hesitation, they drew it.

As they did so, and the door swung open, a startling thing happened. A man rushed out like a thunderbolt and sprung straight for Sandy.

"Take that, you rascal!" he cried.

"Hoots mon, what ails ye!" yelled the Scotch lad, for the flicker of the match had enabled him to see that the man was gaunt, cadaverous, and apparently the victim of ill-treatment. They had little to fear from him.

"Great Scott!" exclaimed the man. "I know that voice. Isn't that a lad named Sandy MacTavish?"

"It is. But who the dickens are you? Here, wait till I get another match." So saying, the lad kindled another lucifer.

As its light fell on the features of the man who had sprung out on them, both lads gave an exclamation of dumfounded amazement:

"Sam Hartley!"

"Yes, it's me, all right!" rejoined the detective, with scant regard for grammar. "But what in the world brings Sandy MacTavish and Jack Dacre here?"

"The same agency which brought you, I guess," exclaimed Jack; "a band of rascals. But tell us what this place is, and how they ever entrapped you in it."

The Secret Service man who had aided the boys in the valley against the counterfeiters and again helped them when in peril from Chinese smugglers in the Great Northwest, soon told his story.

He had been sent out by the Department of Justice to round up the gang of miscreants that had been decoying vessels to their fate by false lights. As usual, he worked alone, and, disguised as a fisherman, collected much evidence against them. But in some way they came to suspect him, and one night they raided the hut in which he had taken up his abode, and made him prisoner. Ever since then they had kept him a captive, trying, without success, to get him to reveal how much evidence he had gathered.

"But why didn't the government search for you?" asked Jack.

"Why, they know I always work alone, and sometimes don't communicate with Washington for months. I suppose, in time, they'd have organized a hunt for me, but by that time, I guess, there wouldn't have been much of me left to find." He held up a skinny arm.

"I tell you, the board and lodging at this place is something fierce," he said, with an attempt to turn his misery into a joke, in his old cheerful fashion.

"Hark!" exclaimed Jack suddenly.

There was good reason for his exclamation. Even at the depth at which they were located, they could hear the sounds of firing, as the furious volleys, of which we know, were leveled at the submarine.

"Something's going on up above," decided Sam Hartley. "Wonder what can be up?"

"Maybe those rascals are quarreling among themselves," said Jack.

"Let's go back and enter the light-house through the trap-door," suggested Sandy.

But Sam Hartley shook his head.

"I know a better way than that," he said. "You notice that this cell, in which I have been confined, is merely a section of the tunnel closed in?"

The boys nodded.

"You opened the door by which my jailers brought me food when you slid that outside bolt," he said; "but at this other end there's a kind of a bulkhead. I succeeded in working it somewhat loose, but my failing strength would not permit my proceeding with the job. But through cracks in it I've smelled fresh air. I'm sure it opens out of doors. What do you say if we try to force it by our united efforts?"

The bulkhead referred to by Sam Hartley was an affair of boards and what seemed to be driftwood, held together by iron braces. As he had said, it was in a shaky condition.

Together they all three set to work on it, and after half an hour's work Sandy cried:

"Hooray! One more shove, and down she comes!"

The shove was given, and with a will. As the Scotch lad had prophesied, the partition fell with a crash, amid a cloud of dust. As it fell, a strong whiff of fresh air blew in their faces.

"It's as I thought," declared Sam Hartley, "this tunnel opens on the lake shore."

"Did that rascally gang dig it?" wondered Sandy.

"No," rejoined the detective, "I guess it's of Indian origin. There are drawings on the wall. In one case that I worked up, I had to study such things, so that I recognize them. I guess Indians dug this tunnel, and then the gang, when they found it, speedily took advantage of the fact that it was here to make a secret 'getaway' place."

As we know, from what old Sam on board the submarine had said, such was the case.

"Well, let's get to the air and find out what's going forward," said Jack impatiently.

The others were nothing loath. But they found their way barred by a strange assortment of encumbrances in the passage-way. Bales, barrels, boxes, kegs, all these cluttered it up, almost to its roof. It was hard work effecting a passage among them.

"Boys, do you realize what we've stumbled on?" said Sam Hartley, as they worked at the task of displacing them.

"I guess it's the stuff the gang removed from vessels they had wrecked," surmised Sandy.

"Correct," said Sam. "Look at the different names upon them. They are all of craft that I have read about as being mysteriously missing."

"Well, if you've got a path clear, let's get out," said Sandy dryly. "I've burned my last match."

They groped their way forward down the passage. Inwardly each was wondering why the gang did not pursue them. Had they but known it, each member of that precious organization was busied in getting aboard the tug, as it had been surmised by the rascals that the submarine would speedily bring the authorities to the island.

"Look! The stars!" cried Jack, as at last they emerged from the old Indian tunnel upon a sandy beach.

The storm had cleared off like magic, and the canopy of night sparkled with a thousand points of light.

"Hullo, what's that?" cried Sam suddenly.

Something black, and looking not unlike a whale, had suddenly emerged from the surface of the waters.

"A whale!" cried Sandy.

"Rubbish! What would a whale be doing in the Great Lakes?" scoffed Jack.

"I don't care; it is one."

"Look," cried Sam suddenly, "there's a light coming from it. It's—it's—by all that's wonderful, it's a submarine!"

The rays of the searchlight enveloped the figures on the beach. Suddenly the conning tower hatch shot open and Tom's figure emerged.

"Jack! Jack!" he hailed.

"It's Tom!" went up an incredulous shout.

Sam Hartley's amazement was no less than that of the boys. The submarine's boat was sent ashore for them, and before long they were all talking at once in the cabin of the good craft Huron. What slappings of the back, hand-shakings and mad antics ensued, I leave you to imagine.

Till dawn they hovered about the island, and then, as they found that the rascally band had really escaped, they set out for Brownhaven. But a short part of the distance had been covered, however, before some spars and a hull that looked familiar were espied. It was the Sea Ranger. She proved to have on board Mr. Chisholm Dacre and Mr. MacTavish. The gentlemen happened to be in Buffalo on business when Tom's message was relayed to them. In a special train they had made all speed for Brownhaven, where they had found the Sea Ranger repaired ahead of the expected time. With a hastily picked crew, they had set out at once for Castle Rock Island.

"Well, you boys display a faculty for getting in and out of trouble far in excess of any I have ever seen," laughed Mr. Dacre, after they had formed Obadiah Ironsides' acquaintance and made a full survey of the marvels of the submarine.

"Well, so long as they do get out of it, that's the main thing," said Mr. MacTavish. "Such experiences make real men of them, eh, Mr. Ironsides?"

"I think so," said the inventor.

The talk then drifted to the finding of the hidden spoils of the wreckers.

In due time, Mr. MacTavish, as owner of the island, turned these stolen treasures over to the government, and later he was awarded his share, which was given over, however, to old Sam, as a partial recognition of his services. Both Mr. Dacre and Mr. MacTavish wished to reward Mr. Ironsides, but the only recognition of his assistance in rescuing the lads that the inventor would take was a letter of introduction from Mr. MacTavish to an influential naval official at Washington. It may be said here that this letter was the ultimate means of his securing a lucrative contract to build submarines for Uncle Sam's navy. You have all heard of the Ironsides type of diving torpedo boat—the best and most efficient made.

Walstein, Dampier and Co. were eagerly sought, both by the government and by private detectives engaged by Mr. Dacre and Mr. MacTavish. But no trace of them was found, except a wrecked and abandoned tug on a wild part of the Canadian shore. The ruffians escaped into the wilderness unpunished.

As for Castle Rock Island, it has been turned into a delightful spot. The old tower once more beams forth its friendly rays at night, and nearby a neat bungalow has been built. The rest of the island has been turned into a big game preserve, where the Bungalow Boys delight to hunt. The island is a favorite haunt with them and their boy friends—and some older ones—and, sitting on the veranda of their pleasant island dwelling, they never tire of conversing about the stirring days they spent "On the Great Lakes."

We should like to relate in detail something of their happy days on the island, but we must leave our young friends for a time. The object of this present narrative has been fulfilled. Our boys have been brought safely through dire perils and adventures.

Those who care to follow still further their travels may meet them in new surroundings and novel experiences in a forthcoming volume dealing with life in Alaska.

That land is full of interest and offers abundant opportunity for adventure, and therefore we can assure our readers that they will participate in an exciting tour if they choose to join "The Bungalow Boys Along the Yukon."

THE END.

BOY INVENTORS SERIES

Stories of Skill and Ingenuity

By RICHARD BONNER

THE BOY INVENTORS' WIRELESS TELEGRAPH.

Blest with natural curiosity,—sometimes called the instinct of investigation,—favored with golden opportunity, and gifted with creative ability, the Boy Inventors meet emergencies and contrive mechanical wonders that interest and convince the reader because they always "work" when put to the test.

THE BOY INVENTORS' VANISHING GUN.

A thought, a belief, an experiment; discouragement, hope, effort and final success—this is the history of many an invention; a history in which excitement, competition, danger, despair and persistence figure. This merely suggests the circumstances which draw the daring Boy Inventors into strange experiences and startling adventures, and which demonstrate the practical use of their vanishing gun.

THE BOY INVENTORS' DIVING TORPEDO BOAT.

As in the previous stories of the Boy Inventors, new and interesting triumphs of mechanism are produced which become immediately valuable, and the stage for their proving and testing is again the water. On the surface and below it, the boys have jolly, contagious fun, and the story of their serious, purposeful inventions challenge the reader's deepest attention.

HURST & COMPANY - Publishers - NEW YORK

BORDER BOYS SERIES

Mexican and Canadian Frontier Series

By FREMONT B. DEERING.

THE BORDER BOYS ON THE TRAIL.

What it meant to make an enemy of Black Ramon De Barios—that is the problem that Jack Merrill and his friends, including Coyote Pete, face in this exciting tale.

THE BORDER BOYS ACROSS THE FRONTIER.

Read of the Haunted Mesa and its mysteries, of the Subterranean River and its strange uses, of the value of gasolene and steam "in running the gauntlet," and you will feel that not even the ancient splendors of the Old World can furnish a better setting for romantic action than the Border of the New.

THE BORDER BOYS WITH THE MEXICAN RANGERS.

As every day is making history—faster, it is said, than ever before—so books that keep pace with the changes are full of rapid action and accurate facts. This book deals with lively times on the Mexican border.

THE BORDER BOYS WITH THE TEXAS RANGERS.

The Border Boys have already had much excitement and adventure in their lives, but all this has served to prepare them for the experiences related in this volume. They are stronger, braver and more resourceful than ever, and the exigencies of their life in connection with the Texas Rangers demand all their trained ability.

HURST & COMPANY - Publishers - NEW YORK

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Table of Contents

- THE BUNGALOW BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES

- CHAPTER I. A LAKE HURON "HUMMER."

- CHAPTER II. LOST OVERBOARD!

- CHAPTER III. TOM ENCOUNTERS SOME OLD FOES.

- CHAPTER IV. A CRAFT OF MYSTERY.

- CHAPTER V. TOM IS IN THE THICK OF IT.

- CHAPTER VI. ALONG A TRAIL OF TROUBLES.

- CHAPTER VII. TWO BRAVE LADS AT BAY.

- CHAPTER VIII. A TOUR OF EXPLORATION.

- CHAPTER IX. "FIFTY DOLLARS TO THE MAN THAT GETS THEM!"

- CHAPTER X. A TRAP OF NATURE'S MAKING.

- CHAPTER XI. OUT OF THE DARK.

- CHAPTER XII. MR. IRONSIDES' SUBMARINE—HURON.

- CHAPTER XIII. THE STRANGEST VESSEL ON THE LAKES.

- CHAPTER XIV. OFF ON A LONG CHASE.

- CHAPTER XV. "WE'VE STRUCK A SUBMERGED WRECK!"

- CHAPTER XVI. IN THE GRASP OF CALAMITY.

- CHAPTER XVII. CAPTAIN RANGLER RE-APPEARS.

- CHAPTER XVIII. A MAN OF QUEER MANNERS.

- CHAPTER XIX. WITHIN THE TOWER.

- CHAPTER XX. THE ENEMY'S VICTORY.

- CHAPTER XXI. "THERE IS A WAY—I MEAN TO TRY IT."

- CHAPTER XXII. A BIT OF MADCAP DARING.

- CHAPTER XXIII. BRAINS AND GRIT—A COMBINATION HARD TO BEAT.

- CHAPTER XXIV. "COWARD!"

- CHAPTER XXV. WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT?—CONCLUSION.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE