For some minutes Jack Benson talked with Doctor McCrea.  That naval medical officer listened at least with interest.  Finally, he began to grin.  Then he roared, slapping his knees.

“Mr. Benson, there’s one thing about you.  You certainly are ingenious!”

“Will you do what I have suggested?” pressed the young submarine skipper.

“Why, I—­er—­er—­”

Doctor McCrea hesitated, then again laughed, as he replied: 

“Mr. Benson, all I can say is that I—­I—­well, I’ll have to think it over.  I’m afraid that I—­but I’ll think it over.”

CHAPTER XXIII

WHAT BEFELL THE MAN IN THE BRIG

The “brig” is a place aboard a warship, as aboard some merchant vessels, that is set apart for prison purposes.

Here drunken or mutinous members of the crew are confined.  Here, too, on board a vessel of war, any enlisted man is likely to be stowed away when under severe discipline for any reason.

It is a room fitted up like a prison cell, and having a barred door of iron.

On a war vessel a marine sentry, with bayonet fixed to his gun, is usually stationed before the door, both to watch the prisoners and to prevent men of the crew from talking with those under arrest.

It was in the brig, between decks on the “Hudson,” that Sam Truax was spending his time, the only prisoner then in confinement.

Truax, since his arrest in the submarine’s engine room, had had plenty of time to think matters over.

He had been doing a good deal of thinking, too, yet thought had by no means improved the fellow’s temper.

On a stool in the corner sat Truax, his scowling, sullen face turned towards the barred door when the marine outside, taking a turn, peered in.

“Good heavens, man!  What ails you?” demanded the marine.

“I’m all right,” growled the prisoner.

“I’ll be hanged if you look it!” was the marine’s emphatic answer.

“What are you talking about?” demanded the prisoner, angrily.

“Man alive, I wish you could see your face!”

“I could if this place were fitted with a mirror,” sneered Sam Truax.

The marine, after looking at the prisoner, and shaking his head, continued his pacing to and fro past the door.

Two or three minutes later a sailor, halting at the door, looked at Sam, then wheeled about to the marine.

“Say, what ails that man?  What’s the matter with his face?” demanded the seaman in a low tone, yet one loud enough to be overheard by the prisoner within.

“I don’t know,” said the marine.  “Looks fearful, doesn’t he?”

“He ought to have the doctor—­that’s what,” muttered the seaman, then passed on.

“Now, what are those idiots jabbering about?” Sam gruffly asked himself.  He shifted uneasily, feeling his face flush.