“Why not?” Don shot at him, coldly.

“Well—­because I’ve no orders from Mr. Farnum to that effect.  Because—­well, behind that little door are a few mechanisms that amount to about the most important secret about the boat.”

“Then you refuse to unlock that little door?” demanded Don, coldly, trying to disconcert the young captain by a steady, cold look into his eyes.

“Oh, no; I don’t refuse,” answered young Benson, in the same cool, pleasant tone.  “But the order should come from Mr. Farnum.  He’s right overhead.  You can call up to him.  If he says so, then I’ll unlock it with pleasure.”

“Benson,” retorted Don Melville, again trying to disconcert the young captain with a stare of cold insolence, “I guess you don’t understand quite who I am.”

“If I don’t, I shall be glad to be enlightened,” laughed Jack, softly.  “Who are you?”

“I’m the son of the man who expects to put a big amount of capital into this enterprise.  Farnum wants my father to do it.”

“Then I hope your father does,” nodded Jack Benson, with a look of polite interest.

“Of course, in that case,” pursued Don, “the whole business will be reorganized.”

“I should imagine so,” nodded Jack.

“And, as a part of that reorganization, I’m to have command of the ‘Pollard,’ and of any other boats that may be built here!”

Captain Jack Benson’s face blanched in an instant.  He did not falter, but he felt, for the moment, as though he had been stabbed to the heart.  Hal Hastings gave a little, barely perceptible gasp.  Eph Somers, with a snort of wrath, turned and stepped through into the motor room.

“I’m to command this boat, and the others that may be built; that’s one of my father’s conditions in putting up the required capital,” continued Don Melville.  “Of course, I shall select my own helpers and crews.  If you three are really competent, and show sufficient respect for authority over you, I may be able to provide some sort of places for you aboard this boat and the new one that’s being built.  Now, do you understand who I am?”

“I’ve heard all you said,” replied Captain Jack, dully.  He was so dazed, so tormented, that, for the moment, he did not dare trust himself to make more of a reply.

“Don!” called the elder Melville, briskly.  “We’re going on shore now.  You’d better leave your further studies aboard until to-morrow.”

“Good-bye, then, lads,” said Don Melville, laying a hand on the nickeled railing of the spiral stairway leading up through the conning tower.  He spoke with a trace more of cordiality as he started up the steps:  “When I come aboard next I trust there will be no misunderstanding of new facts.”

Jack Benson still stood by the little cabin table, resting one hand on it.  His eyes were turned toward the floor, his chest heaving.  The blow had struck him like a bolt from a clear, sunny sky!