Then young Benson carelessly produced the young partners’ roll of banknotes.  He quickly counted off eight dollars, handing the money to Mr. Holt.

“Come right in an’ register,” said Landlord Holt, springing up and leading the way.  The hotel sometimes prospered when yacht owners or boat designers came this way, but at any season eight dollars were eight dollars.  The boys were now in high standing with their host.  When matters had been settled in the office Holt led them to the wash room.  Here the young men dusted themselves off, washed, polished their own shoes, donned clean collars and cuffs, and, altogether, speedily made themselves so tidy that they looked quite different from the dusty travelers who had trudged into Dunhaven.

Jabez Holt then conducted them back to chairs on the porch, remarking: 

“It’s after four o’clock now, and supper’ll be ready sharp at six.”

“What time do they knock off work in the boatyard?” queried Jack.

“Five, sharp,” the landlord informed him.

“Does that foreman on the submarine boat job ever come along this way?”

“Goes right by here on his way home,” Mr. Holt informed the boys.

“I’d be glad if you’d introduce us to him,” Jack suggested.

“I sartain will,” nodded Jabez Holt.  “An’, ye know, Dave Pollard is stoppin’ at this hotel.”

“Oh, he is, eh?” Jack snapped up, eagerly.  “Then we’ll certainly try to make his acquaintance to-night.”

Hal, too, looked pleased at this prospect.  Mrs. Holt again calling, from the depths of the kitchen, the landlord was forced to hurry off.  He left behind two boys who suddenly fell to planning their futures with all the rosy enthusiasm of youth.  The longer they talked about the submarine boat, the more both Jack and Hal felt convinced that they were going to succeed in getting into the work.  In fact, both planned to become great in that special field.

It was a bright July day, one of the kind when the world looks at its best to young, hopeful minds.  Absorbed in their vague but rosy plans, both boys forgot the flight of time.

They were roused out of their talk, at last, by hearing heavy footsteps on the gravel close at hand.  Looking up, they saw a heavy, broad shouldered, dark-complexioned youth of about eighteen years.  He had a swaggering way of carrying himself, and undoubtedly considered himself of much importance.  His clothing proclaimed him to be a workman.  As he caught sight of the two happy looking boys this older and larger youth looked them over with a sneering expression which soon turned to a scowl.

“Strangers here, ain’t ye?” demanded the scowling one, as he halted on the edge of the porch.

“Yes,” nodded Jack Benson, pleasantly.

“Thought so,” vouchsafed the other.  “Any body but a stranger hereabouts would know ye were in my chair—­the one I sit in when I come along this way.”