Jack, having now no knife, and the bonds about his ankles being tied with many hard knots, spent some precious minutes in freeing his feet.  At last he stood up, fire in his eyes.

“Oh, pshaw!  There’s no sense in trying to run after that rascal and his wagon,” decided the young submarine skipper.  “I haven’t the slightest idea what direction he took after he got out of sight, and—­oh, gracious!  I’m under orders to be aboard the ‘Farnum’ at eight this morning.  And on Mr. Farnum’s business, at that!”

Clenching his hands vengefully, Jack started along in the direction pointed out by his late captor.  Brisk walking wore some of the edge off his great wrath.  Catching a comprehensive glimpse of himself, Jack could not keep back a grim laugh.

“Well, I certainly am a dandy to spring myself on the trim and slick Naval Academy!” he gritted.  “What a treat I’ll be to the cadets!  That is, if the sentry ever lets me through the gate into the Academy grounds.”

As he hurried along, Jack Benson decided that he simply could not go to the Naval Academy presenting any such grotesque picture as he did now.  Yet he had no money about him with which to purchase more presentable clothes in town.  So he formed another plan.

Within a few minutes he came in sight of Annapolis.  Hurrying on faster, he at last entered the town.  The further he went the more painfully conscious the boy became of the ludicrous appearance that he made.  He saw men and women turn their heads to look after him, and his cheeks burned to a deep scarlet that glowed over the sea-bronze of his skin.

“The single consolation I have is that not a solitary person in town knows me, anyway,” he muttered.  Then he caught sight of a clock on a church steeple—­twenty-five minutes of eight.

“That means a fearful hustle,” he muttered, and went ahead under such steam that he all but panted.  At last he came to the Maryland House, opposite the State Capitol grounds.  Into the office of the hotel he darted, going straight up to the desk.

A clerk who had been on duty for hours, and who was growing more drowsy every moment, stared at the boy in amazement.

“See here, you ragamuffin, what—­”

“My name is Benson,” began the boy, breathlessly.  “I’m a guest of the house—­arrived last night.  I—­”

“You, a guest of this house?” demanded the clerk of the most select hotel in the town.  “You—­”

That was as far as the disgust of the clerk would permit him to go in words.  A score of well-dressed gentlemen were staring in astonishment at the scene.  The clerk nodded to two stout porters who had suspended their work nearby.

It had been Jack Benson’s purpose to go to his room and keep out of sight, while despatching one of the colored bell-boys of the hotel with a note to Hal Hastings, asking that chum to send him up a uniform and other articles of attire.  However, before the young submarine captain fully realized what was happening, the two porters had seized him.  Firmly, even though gently, they hustled him out through the entrance onto the street.