Revolvers in hand, and ready, the two young officers of the “Sudbury” pressed forward into the battered-looking room.

“Where is the rascal?” growled Eph Somers.

“Here, hiding like a cornered rat,” replied Jack, aiming both revolvers at a huddled figure well in under the lower berth.  “Come out, Gray!  You won’t be hurt unless you try tricks on us.”

The answer was a groan.

“Are your hurt?” inquired Lieutenant Benson.

“Yes.”

“How badly?”

“You hit me twice.”

“Where?”

“Once in the left arm; once in the right thigh.  O-o-o-h!”

Jack Benson felt a swift twinge—­almost a guilty jerk of his conscience.

To be sure, Gray had been defying properly appointed officers of the government engaged in performing their sworn task.  Gray had attempted to kill or injure the young officers.

Still, Gray was a human being.  Benson, despite his fighting spirit, at need, was not fond of gazing upon misery.

“I guess you can get out, with a little aid,” coaxed Lieutenant Jack.

Gray’s answer was another groan.

“We’ll help you out, then,” Jack continued.  “But don’t you dare to open fire upon any of our party!”

“I would, if I could,” snarled the wounded man.

“Why can’t you?”

“Fired my last cartridge!” snapped the wretch, defiantly.  “Else you wouldn’t have got in here without losing a few men!”

Jack signed to the two men who had forced the door to lend a hand in moving Gray out from under the berth.  As they got the wounded man out on the carpet he presented a sad picture in his bloodstained clothing.

“Will the Lieutenant pardon a suggestion?” spoke up one of the sailors, saluting.

“Yes.”

“I have a first aid package, sir.  With some help I can, bind this man’s wounds until we get him over to the sick bay on the ‘Sudbury.’”

“A fine idea,” agreed Lieutenant Jack.  “Go ahead.”

First of all, the wounded prisoner was taken out into the passageway.  Jack and Eph had yet important work to do here.  For a few minutes they searched in vain.  Then, in turning over the lower berth’s mattress, Eph’s hand touched something hard.

“Wait until I get my pocket-knife out,” he smiled.

Rip! r-r-r-r-rip!  As Ensign Eph tore open the mattress and thrust his hands inside, the grin on his face broadened.

“I reckon we’ve got the object of the whole expedition,” he announced.

He drew out a package wrapped in heavy paper.  Jack broke the string, unwrapping, and pulling out to the light, a bundle of charts, layer upon layer.

“Yes.  Here we have what we’re after,” nodded Lieutenant Benson.  “And here are two books written chock-full of notes to go with the charts.  Gracious!  That fellow.  Millard must have stolen plans of every important fortified harbor on the Atlantic coast.  And here are charts of some of the gulf ports as well.”