“M.  Lemaire, who is your master?”

“My master?” repeated the Frenchman.  “I do not understand you.”

“Every dog, even a dirty one,” thundered Captain Jack Benson, “has a master!  Who’s yours?”

M. Lemaire’s face became livid in an instant.  His hands working convulsively, he sprang at the young submarine captain.

Mlle. Nadiboff, snatching a riding whip from under her automobile coat, turned and ran toward them.  The chauffeur snatched up a wrench, leaping out of the automobile.

CHAPTER X

M. LEMAIRE PROVES HIS TRAINING

“You insult me!” screamed M. Lemaire, halting right under the face of Captain Jack Benson, who looked at him undaunted.

“I didn’t,” denied Jack.  “I let you do that yourself.  My congratulations, sir.  You certainly know how to insult your own manhood as well as the most confirmed scoundrel could wish!”

“You insult again!” quivered M. Lemaire, his French accent asserting itself.  “I s’all make you pay for zat!”

He struck wildly, badly, as a Frenchman does who has no knowledge of boxing.  Benson merely warded off the blow, at the same time brushing M. Lemaire back a couple of steps.

“Now, you keep away—­Gaston, or whatever your name is!” warned Jack, wheeling upon the chauffeur.  “If I lose my temper, some one is going to be hurt.”

But that defiance served only to draw the chauffeur on.  Raising the wrench, he rushed swiftly at the young submarine captain, aiming a blow at his head.

Just as might have been expected, Jack Benson wasn’t there at that instant.

Instead, he dodged nimbly to one side, at the same time driving in a blow that landed under one of the chauffeur’s ears.  The fellow went to the ground.  Swift as a flash Jack bent over him, and snatched up the wrench, hurling it off among the trees.

Then Jack wheeled around to face Mlle. Nadiboff, bowing.

“Don’t you attempt to do anything, I beg of you, Mademoiselle,” Jack urged.  “It would come fearfully hard to have to make even the signs of striking at a woman.”

Though she did not fear physical violence from him, there was something in Benson’s eyes, at just that moment, which caused the Russian woman to retreat three or four steps.

Now Jack drew himself up, for he was becoming master of himself.  He at once resolved to play this game, if there was to be more of it, with greater coolness.

“I think you see, Monsieur, that I am not be frightened by your childish gymnastics,” Benson uttered.

M. Lemaire, too, had forced himself to greater coolness.

“Why, Captain Benson, I might even kill, if I found it necessary,” replied the Frenchman.

“Then don’t get any notion that it’s necessary,” frowned the young submarine captain.  “It would get you into a fearful lot of trouble, and could do you no possible good.”