Overcome with fright and misery, Mazie did not stir for a full minute, then she dragged herself from the gruesome spot where she lay.

She gave one quick glance at the door.  It appeared to have been wedged solidly shut.  Then she turned to Cio-Cio-San, who also had arisen.

“What can have happened?” Mazie asked in a voice she could scarcely believe was her own.

What had happened was this:  one of the hooks on the police boat had caught in an outer railing of the submarine.  The giant iron fish was hooked.

To throw other drags, fastened on longer chains, into the sub; to send tugs and police boats snorting backward; to tighten the chains and draw the sub to the surface, to whirl it about until the hatchway was once more at the upper side, this was merely a matter of time.

When the Radicals saw what had been done, they doubtless realized that if they refused to come out the lid would be blown off and they would be likely to perish in the explosion.  They had apparently planned to charge the police and attempt an escape, for the Russian came first with a rush, a pistol in each hand.  But Johnny Thompson’s good right arm spoiled all this.  He had leaped to the surface of the sub and when the Russian appeared he gave him a blow under the chin that lifted him off his feet and sent him plunging into the river.

Seeing this the other members of the gang surrendered.

Johnny was the first man below.  Seeing the closed door to the right, he hammered on it, shouting: 

“C’mon out, we’re the police.”

Slowly the door opened.  There before him stood Mazie.

“Mazie!” Johnny’s eyes bulged with astonishment.

“Johnny!” There was a sob in her voice.  Then catching herself, she glanced down at her wrinkled and blood-bespattered dress.

“Johnny,” she implored, “for goodness’ sake get me out of this horrid place so I can change these clothes.”

“There’s decent enough dresses at the police station,” suggested a smiling officer.

“Call the wagon,” said Johnny.

Soon they were rattling away toward the station, Mazie, Cio-Cio-San, and Johnny.

“Johnny,” Mazie whispered, “you didn’t desert, did you?”

“Did you think that?” Johnny groaned in mock agony.

“No, honest I didn’t, but what—­what did you do?”

“Just got tired of waiting for Uncle Sam to bring me home from Russia, so I walked, that’s all.  Here’s my discharge papers, all right.  And here’s my transportation.”

With a smile Johnny handed her the two crumpled papers.

“You see,” he exclaimed, “a Russian brigand got me in the left arm when I was guarding the Trans-Siberian Railroad.  They sent me to the hospital, then gave me my discharge.  Said I’d be no more good as a soldier.  And after waiting for a boat that never seemed to come I hit out for the north.  Nothing crooked about that at all, but I had to be a bit sly about it anyway, for Uncle Sam don’t like to have you take chances even if you are discharged.”