Without a word, now, the boatbuilder sprang forward.  As he advanced, he heard the running of the uniformed boy plainly enough, and, a moment later, came in sight.

Now, Jacob Farnum, though not much given to making empty threats, decided to try the effect of a ruse.

“You!  You ahead!” he shouted.  “Stop, or I’ll send some lead after you.  Do you want me to fire?”

Swift as thought Don Melville, again in pursuit at the rear, yelled: 

“Don’t mind him, Benson!  Scoot!  He hasn’t any gun.”

“If some fairy only would take care of that snake-in-the-grass behind me!” quivered Mr. Farnum, silently.

Having the uniformed boy plainly in sight, though some hundred or more feet ahead, Farnum by no means felt like giving up the race.  All the same, the boatbuilder, long out of practice in athletics, was beginning to feel severely the effects of this chase over rough ground and through bushes.

“I’ve got to die or get him!” muttered Farnum, doggedly, between his teeth.  “Oh, for a little light on this cloudy night!  If I could be sure the fellow is, or isn’t, Benson, I might be more willing to drop this pace!”

Putting on a better spurt, as a last, desperate resort, Farnum did all in his power to overtake the uniformed boy.

He seemed likely enough to do it—­would have done it, no doubt, but for a new trick on the part of the enemy.

Don Melville, seeing how matters were going, and being in much better training, increased his own burst of speed, running as softly as possible.

Then, with an exultant cry, Don leaped upon the back of Jacob Farnum, catching him around the neck and bearing him to the ground.

“Run, Benson!” cheered young Melville, “He’ll never catch you now!”

CHAPTER XI

WHAT BEFELL THE REAL BENSON

Whistling softly, the real Jack Benson went along cheerily to the appointed place.

Being wholly courageous, there was no thought of dread in his mind over any possible treachery.

As he came in sight of the two trees, between which he had been asked to meet the Italian, he made out a man waiting there.

“Good evening,” came the low, soft hail.

Then the speaker stepped forward, proving to be the same who had accosted the young submarine captain in the afternoon.

“Good evening,” was Jack’s pleasant reply.  “You’re on time, I see.”

“Oh, sure!” laughed the Italian.  “I been here twenty minute, already.”

“Where’s your friend?”

“Up in the woods.  We take this path here, and we find him.”

The Italian took Jack Benson lightly by one arm, piloting the boy until he had turned him into the path.  Then the foreigner stepped in advance, saying: 

“We reach my friend, in minute.”

Thus they proceeded for perhaps five hundred feet into the woods.  Presently a small light, looking as though it might be the glowing end of a cigar, appeared ahead.