“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” blurted the astounded Englishman

“You’ll go all the same,” warned Mr. Trotter, first of all displaying his Secret Service badge, next running a hand back briefly to a revolver that rested in a hip pocket.  “I don’t much care, Drummond, whether you walk with me, or whether I have to send for an ambulance to bring you along.  But you’ll go just where I want you to.”

The Englishman was too much terrified to reply.  Two or three times he opened his mouth as though to speak, but, instead, merely swallowed.

“Come, now—­forward march” advised Mr. Trotter.  Drummond, without allowing himself to hesitate, went away at the side of the Secret Service man.

“Don’t you want your cane?” called Jack Benson.  Drummond did not condescend to answer, so the submarine boy slipped back to the tree, where he found the stick.  It was a handsome piece of polished partridge wood, surmounted by a handsomely wrought head of gold.

“This will make an interesting souvenir to keep aboard the boat,” mused Benson, swinging the stick as he continued his walk.

At the veranda Jack came face to face with Mlle. Nadiboff, just returning from an unaccompanied stroll down by the water front.  To the submarine boy’s astonishment the handsome Russian greeted him most amiably.

“You have not forgotten old friends, I hope, my Captain?” she added, smiling and with a pretty little coaxing way.

“There are some old friends,” replied Captain Jack, lifting his cap, “whom it is impossible to forget.”

“I hope you will continue to regard me as a friend,” responded Mlle. Nadiboff, more seriously, looking him fully in the eyes.

“Why?” queried Jack.

“I may need a friend,” she replied, dropping her glance for a moment.

“You in need of anything—­even a friend?” cried Captain Jack, incredulously.

“I may need a friend who can speak a good word for me; who can forget things, or explain them.” went on Mlle. Nadiboff, resting a hand pleadingly on his sleeve “My Captain, if need be, I shall send for you.  Do not fail me!  You won’t?”

It looked as though the tears lay just behind her eyes.  The submarine boy felt that the situation was becoming too interesting, so he lifted his cap once more as he turned on his heel.

“Mlle. Nadiboff,” he sent back to her, “I trust you will never want for the most reliable friends.”

He turned down the veranda to go toward the office door, when he encountered another surprise.

Leaning against one of the posts stood Kamanako, as natty and trim as though he had come from the tailor’s.

Looking up with a most friendly smile, the little Japanese saluted.

“Why, how do you do?” Jack greeted him, halting.  “I had an idea you had left Spruce Beach.”

“I should have done so, but I started too late,” replied Kamanako, still smiling.  Nothing ever daunts that Japanese smile.  One of these little men, being led away to have his head chopped off, goes with a smile on his little brown face.