“Not to-night,” replied Jack Benson, with a shake of his head.  “I’m too much in earnest about wanting to know all about the handling of a submarine to waste all my leisure in fooling.  See this book on mechanics?  I’m going to stay aboard and study it to-night, and see how much of it I can get into my head.”

“Good luck to you,” laughed Eph.  “If you succeed, maybe we’ll stay on board to-morrow night and let you be schoolmaster.  But this was pay-day, and the ice-cream soda up in the village fizzes good to me.”

As soon as they had gone, Jack placed his book on the cabin table and drew up to it.  Until dark he plodded through the pages, then turned on the electric light.  Finding the book more difficult of comprehension than he had expected, he crouched over the volume, devoting his whole attention to the first few pages.  Nine o’clock came and went.  Half-past nine went by.  Had Benson heeded the time he would have concluded that his comrades had found village life unusually alluring to-night.

Through the dark, quiet boat yard prowled a man, pausing and listening every few steps, as though bent on trying to keep out of the sight of the night watchman.

It was Jack’s old enemy, Josh Owen, who, so far, had cleverly kept out of the way of the officers seeking him.

In some way Josh had learned that the other two submarine boys were up in the village.  The lights shining from the interior of the submarine proved that someone was aboard.  Hence it must be Jack Benson.

Down at the water’s edge lay the “Pollard’s” rowboat tender.  A final survey satisfied Josh Owen that the watchman was nowhere about.  An instant later the former foreman was in the rowboat, handling the oars so quietly as to make hardly any sound.  Two or three minutes later he was alongside the “Pollard,” stealthily making the painter fast to the deck rail.  Then, in his bare feet, Josh went softly up over the side.  At the manhole he crouched to peer below.  He could not see the boy, but the shadow told him that Benson was sitting with his back to the stairway.

A gleam of insane wickedness in his eyes—­for brooding had somewhat unbalanced the former foreman’s mind—­Josh Owen started softly down the stairway.

Fancying he heard some slight, unusual sound, Jack Benson turned.  Too late!  The powerful ex-foreman leaped, upon him, bearing the boy to the floor and holding him there helpless.

“You little sneak, I’ve waited for this time!” snarled Owen, hoarsely.  “But now—­”

Josh rolled the boy over, yanked a pair of steel handcuffs from a rear pocket, and quickly, despite Benson’s struggles snapped them onto the Submarine boy’s wrists.

“Now, I’ve got ye!” he finished, his flaming eyes close to Jack’s.

“For a little while,” jeered Benson, as calmly as he could force himself to speak.

It was an unfortunate speech.