Down low ducked the submarine boy; then came up straight at close quarters.  Benson’s sudden grapple deprived the driver of a chance to use the butt of his whip in the manner the fellow had intended.

Yet the driver was a powerful fellow, his strength making him about a match for the greater agility of the bronzed young skipper.

Jack managed to land a blow or two against his big assailant, though without doing much harm.

Yet the submarine boy was undismayed and confident, until, out of the corner of one eye, he saw Radwin rising and advancing cautiously to close in.

Young Benson’s opportunity came at just that instant.  Smack!  He landed his right fist in the driver’s face, almost dazing him.  With the left fist Jack struck himself free.

But Radwin was just upon him as the boy turned.

“No, you don’t!” mocked Captain Jack, ducking down, kangaroo-fashion.  “Day-day!”

That low crouch and the following spring had carried the submarine boy just under Fred Radwin’s outstretched right arm.

And now, Jack Benson, being past both of his assailants, took refuge in discreet flight, in fact, he ran down the street with about every pound of human steam turned on.

“Come on!” snarled Radwin, setting the sprinting pace.  “We’ve got to catch that rascally boy, and mighty quick, too!”

This block or two of the street appeared to be deserted.  There was no telling, however, how soon the submarine boy might run into two or three real men who would take his side in any scrimmage that was due.

Though Radwin had the first start after Jack, and was running well, the driver, a long-legged fellow with splendid “wind” soon passed his leader.

Jack realized that he was in danger of being caught, and tried to put on a greater burst of speed.  Yet the driver came closer and closer.

Whizz-zz!

The driver had aimed his heavy whip, lance-fashion, and butt-end first, and launched it after the fugitive.

Had not Jack turned the instant before, to glance backward, the whip would have struck him in the back of the head.  But Benson saw it coming, and threw himself forward, his head went down.

The whip, therefore, flew just over his head, striking the sidewalk ahead of him.

At that moment Jack Benson tripped.  He did not mean to do it.  He simply fell and landed on his knees, his head low.

On came the sprinting driver.  It was too late to stop or turn.  Over Jack Benson plunged the fellow, then landed in a heap on the sidewalk.

Jack was up like a flash.  He heard a yell from the driver, but Benson’s gaze was upon the whip.

At a bound the submarine boy possessed himself of this weapon.  He got it, just in time, too, to wheel and face Fred Radwin, threatening that fellow with the heavy butt-end of the driver’s recent weapon.

“Get up behind the boy, you fool!” hissed Radwin.