The correspondents were pressing about the worried builder and the uneasy inventor.

"There's a tragedy going on over there, isn't there?" demanded another journalist, pointing out across the water.

"I--I'm afraid there is a chance of it," nodded Mr. Farnum, dejectedly, again looking at the watch in his hand. "It's getting on toward an hour since the 'Pollard' went down."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Is there no way to rescue the crew?"

"Don't let those boys die, without lifting a finger to save them."

"Get busy, man--in heaven's name, get busy!"

Such were the comments, questions and advice that poured in on the builder. David Pollard, his sensitive nature suffering extremely, shrank back out of the crowd.

"Gentlemen--and ladies, too--don't you understand that nothing really can be done--at least not in a rush?" cried Jacob Farnum, the cold sweat standing out on his face. "There isn't a diver in or near Dunhaven, and that unfortunate boat is down in seventy feet of water. I'm going to rush a wire to the nearest place where I know a diver to be, but I--I am certain that it will be hours before we can hope to have one here. That is all--all that can possibly be done."

"Oh, this is dreadful!" sobbed one of the women writers. "Those brave, splendid boys--such a fearful fate!"

"Must they be asphyxiated down there, below?" cried another woman.

"Don't," choked Jacob Farnum. "I must rush for the telegraph station and get off a message for a diver--also for a wrecking company to send tugs and floats here for raising the 'Pollard.' Yet it will take a wretchedly long time."

"And the boys? Rescue will come too late to save them?" asked a newspaper man, with a decided choke in his voice.

Jacob Farnum made a wild dash for his office, telephoning for a messenger boy. While waiting he wrote two telegrams in feverish haste.

Several of the newspaper people wrote hasty, excited dispatches to their papers for the evening editions. The messenger boy, when he arrived on a run, was all but loaded down with paper. Then the yard's owner and the newspaper folks dashed back to the sh.o.r.e.

Out on the harbor the water lay unruffled. There was not a sign of the suspected tragedy that lay beneath the waves.

"It's an hour and a half since the boat sank," called one of the correspondents.

"What were the boys supposed to do, anyway?" insisted another.

Jacob Farnum opened his mouth, as though to speak, then closed it again.

"Tell us," insisted one woman.

"Yes, tell us," insisted a man.

Just then, there came a shout over the waters. "Say, you lubbers, what did you move that boat for?"

There was an instant gasp from all who turned so swiftly to look out over the water.

Only Jack Benson's brown-haired head showed above the surface of the harbor, but his look was laughing, utterly care-free.

The boatmen who had allowed their craft to drift while waiting, now thrust out their oars, making quick time to where the submarine boy stood treading water.

In his sudden revulsion of feeling the inventor all but fainted. Jacob Farnum, his gnawing suspense over, felt as though his knees must give way under him. Then, by a mighty effort, just as the deafening cheering started, he led the race around the harbor.

"Here, you--Jack Benson!" gasped the yard's owner. "You come in here mighty quick! Give an account of yourself. What was wrong below?"

"Wrong?" hailed back Benson, standing in the bow of the sh.o.r.e boat as it made for sh.o.r.e.

"What were you doing down below, all this time?" demanded Mr. Farnum.

"Doing? Oh, Eph was taking a nap--"

"Taking a nap?"

"Hal was tinkering with the gasoline motor, and I was reading."

"Reading?" fumed Mr. Farnum. "What were you trying to do? Torment the life out of us?"

"Were any of you folks worried?" asked Jack, smiling innocently at the excited crowd.

"Worried?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the boatbuilder. "I've telegraphed for a diver and a wrecking company's outfit."

"Better countermand the order, air," advised Jack, dryly.

"But what on earth caused all the delay? What did it mean?" persisted the boatbuilder. "Answer me, Benson."

"Why," laughed Jack, "when we started, I dropped a word or two about trying to make the exhibition dramatic, didn't I?"

"If that's what you tried to do, young man," grunted one of the correspondents, "you've certainly succeeded. Why, in five or ten minutes more the evening papers in half a dozen cities will have extras out announcing that one more big submarine boat disaster has occurred!"

"Did you really send that to your papers?" asked Jack Benson, some of his glee showing.

"Of course we did."

"And that reminds me," shouted another. "We've got to send the follow-up news, at once. I have, anyway."

That roused the newspaper people to a sense of what they were there for, though one man broke in:

"Just a second, folks! Let's find out what the show was intended for."

"Why, it's intended to show," replied Jack, "that a boat built and equipped like the 'Pollard' isn't a death-trap for the crew, if it should happen, through some accident, that the boat refuses to rise to the surface."

"That's the trick," confirmed Mr. Farnum. "But, Jack, why did you wait so long before coming up."

"So that you could all realize something of the anxiety of people over such accidents to submarines, and the great dread over the fate of the crew," laughed the boy. "I think our delay made you all realize something of that."

"You _have_ something of the dramatic instinct, truly," murmured the newspaper woman who had sobbed. "You had us all scared nearly to the fainting point."

"Now," continued Captain Jack, "just to show you that the boat didn't get disabled in any way, I'm going down again and then come up with the boat."

"It won't take you as long as it did this last time, will it?" demanded one of the reporters.