Jack’s face began to glow as he remembered more and more of the brief career of Millard at Dunhaven.

“And Dave Pollard, when he was over in Washington later, said he ran across Millard living at the swell Arlington Hotel!  Millard had a different name in Washington, and refused to recognize Mr. Pollard—­said there was some mistake.  By hookey!  There isn’t any mistake.  Millard was trying to steal submarine secrets at Dunhaven, and now he’s trying to map out harbor defenses in Craven Bay!”

Again Captain Jack glanced backward over his shoulder, but Millard was no longer in sight.

“He knew me, probably, in a flash,” muttered the submarine boy.  “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize him sooner.”

Having gotten his wind back, Jack broke into a run again.  Just because Millard had dropped out of sight was no reason for taking chances of a sudden swoop from the stranger.

For some five minutes Jack Benson jogged along.  Then he came in sight of a little semicove.  Here lay a small motor launch, whose skipper, somewhat of the fisherman type, was busily engaged with the engine.

“Say,” hailed young Benson, running down to the water’s edge, “can you start your engine at once?”

“I reckon,” nodded the fisherman, looking up.

“Run your bow in, so I can get aboard, then,” directed Captain Jack, briskly.  “I want to get over to where the Army tug is at work.  Do you know where that is—­over to the southeast ward?”

“Yep,” nodded the fisherman.

“I’ll give you three dollars to take me over there in a hustle,” proposed Jack.

“You’re easy enough,” grinned the man in the boat, starting the engine, then lightly driving the bow of the boat upon the sand.  “But you’ll pay me in advance.”

“Certainly,” nodded the submarine boy, taking out the money, as he stepped into the boat, and handing it over.

“Now, pick up that boathook, and shove off, and we’ll start,” added the master of the little launch.

As Jack snatched up the boathook he caught, sight of Millard, three hundred yards away, just coming in sight on a run.

“You’d better get your engine going fast,” warned Jack, “or that fellow headed this way will make trouble for us both.  He’s carrying a gun.”

The skipper took just one look at Millard, who was racing along, pistol in hand, and was prepared to believe his present passenger.  That little launch stole out of the cover under its reverse gear until the master of the craft thought himself far enough from shore for him to be out of range of Millard’s weapon.

“Who is that feller?” asked the fisherman, when satisfied that he was at a safe distance and increasing it every instant.

“From the way he’s dancing up and down, it looks as if he were crazy,” laughed Jack, coolly.

“What’s his particular specialty in craziness?” asked the master of the launch, looking shrewdly at the submarine boy.