“I wish you could tell me,” responded Jack Benson, speaking rather thickly, for he was still somewhat dazed.  “Oh, my head!”

“There has been some queer work here,” muttered Hal in Eph’s ear.  “Don’t torment him with questions.  Just help me to get him down to the yard.”

While the two submarine boys were guiding their weak, dizzy comrade out to the sidewalk a man came by with a swinging stride.  Then he stopped short, staring in amazement.

“Hullo, boys!  What on earth has happened?”

It was Grant Andrews, foreman of the submarine work at the yard, and a warm personal friend of Benson’s.

“I don’t believe the old chap feels like telling us just now,” muttered Hal, with a sour face.

“Whiskey!” muttered Andrews, almost under his breath.  “What does it mean?  Benson never touched a drop of that vile stuff, did he?”

“He’d sooner drown himself,” retorted Hal, with spirit.

“Of course he would,” agreed Grant Andrews.  “But what is the meaning of all this?”

“Oh, there’s some queer, hocus-pocus business on foot,” muttered Hal, bitterly.  “But I don’t believe Jack feels much like telling us anything about it at present.”

In truth, Jack didn’t seem inclined to conversation.  He was too sore and dazed to feel like talking.  He couldn’t collect his ideas clearly.  The most that he actually knew was that the pain in his head was tormenting.

“I’ll pick him right up in my arms and carry him,” proposed Andrews.  “I’ll take him to Mr. Farnum’s office.  Then I’ll get a doctor.  We don’t want much noise about this, or folks will be telling all sorts of yarns against Jack Benson and his drinking habits, when the truth is he’s about the finest, steadiest young fellow alive!”

Just as Andrews was about to carry his purpose into action, however, an automobile turned the nearest corner and came swiftly toward them.  In another instant it stopped alongside.  It contained Mr. Farnum and his chauffeur, besides three naval officers.

“What’s wrong, Andrews?” called the yard’s owner.  “Why, that’s Jack Benson!  What has happened to him?”

Hal and Eph stood supporting their comrade, almost holding him, in fact.  Jacob Farnum leaped from his automobile.  Lieutenant Commander Mayhew followed him.

“Liquor, eh?” exclaimed the naval officer, the odor reaching his nostrils.

“No such thing,” retorted Farnum, turning upon the officer.  “At least, Jack Benson has been drinking no such stuff.”

“It was only a guess,” murmured Mr. Mayhew, apologetically.  “You know your young man better than I do, Mr. Farnum.”

“There is liquor on his clothing,” continued the shipbuilder.  “It looks as though someone had assaulted the lad, laid him out, and then sprinkled him.  It’s a wasted trick, though.  I know him too well to be fooled by any such clumsy bit of nonsense.”