Of course Jack Benson could have tried to put up a fight, but he knew he would easily be beaten. Besides, these men, smiling and polite as they now appeared, might have tempers bad enough to lead them to resort to Italian steel, if they had to do it. Therefore Jack nodded, then knelt at the trapway, and next, with an inward prayer, let himself drop down into the darkness. He landed on damp, soft earth.

"Good boy!" called one of the Italians, the lantern lighting his smiling face as it appeared framed by the trapway for an instant. "Not so very long to wait. Let you out so you go home, bimeby."

Then the trapdoor was gently put tack in place, after which Jack heard the click of a padlock above to secure the barrier in place.

Young Benson got upon his feet, stretched to make sure he was unhurt, then broke forth, under his breath:

"Of all the prize fools in the world, commend me to Jack Benson! Here, at the request of a perfect stranger, I've taken a long walk this night, just in order to place myself wholly in the hands of men who, however mild they may be in their piracy, certainly wish me no good. Oh, you, Jack! Oh, you blooming, prize idiot!"

Then he smiled grimly, wondering. From what had happened so far he felt inclined to believe the smiling rascals above. Had they intended worse violence, they had had abundant opportunity to show it.

"Of course, they're probably stretching a point when they say I'm to be here only three or four hours," reflected the boy. "Yet, now I'm here, I imagine I'll have to remain here until they're pleased to let me out.

But--will I, though?"

Overhead, at that moment, sounded the tinkle of a mandolin. It came, apparently, from the room nearer the front door. The two foreigners began to hum softly to the accompaniment of their instrument.

"May-be it was a lucky thing it never occurred to the pair to search me,"

murmured the submarine boy. "Probably they wouldn't have left this box of matches in my possession."

Lighting one of the matches, Jack began to explore. The cellar was much like any other, and wholly empty. On each side was a little, low window, probably not large enough for the submarine boy to crawl through. Even at that the openings had been bricked up and looked as though they would resist a long a.s.sault.

At the rear of the cellar were steps, leading up to a stout-looking bulkhead. It was padlocked, on the under side, with stout hasp and staples.

"Nothing doing here, either," muttered Jack. "Yet--hold on--blazes!"

Almost feverishly he felt in an inner pocket. It was there--a case containing seven or eight small, fine saws and other tools often employed by machinists in constructing small devices or models. He had been using some of the instruments on the boat that afternoon.

"Wow!" sputtered the submarine boy, joyously. "And again--some more _wow_!"

Lighting another match, carefully selecting his saw, and then lighting still another match, he took a look at the padlock, trying to find some portion of the ring where the metal was more slender. The saw was intended for use on metals. After he had made a sufficient notch in the ring, young Benson was able to work, much of the time, in darkness.

"Blessings on that mandolin," chuckled this industrious young human beaver. "If it wasn't for their jolly old tw.a.n.g-tw.a.n.g those Italians might hear my fairy buzz-saw at work."

Yet, though he progressed, what a fearful length of time this task appeared to take!

"And, if it turns out that there's another padlock in place on the outside, this will be just another case of love's labor lose," sighed the boy.

Occasionally, when the mandolin sounds ceased for a few moments, Benson rested, too. It would never do to take the risk of having his slight noise overheard.

At last! The saw went through the ring, proclaiming the task all but finished. First, with trembling fingers, the submarine boy replaced the saw in its case. Then, with another tough little tool, he started patiently to bend the severed ends of the ring metal sufficiently far apart. In this he succeeded finally.

Removing the padlock, he let the hasp fall away from the staple. On the floor above the mandolin was tw.a.n.ging merrily, the voices of the Italians rising somewhat in their song.

With his pulses throbbing, Jack Benson essayed to raise the bulkhead.

Glory! It rose! A moment later Captain Jack Benson was out in the open, under the cloudy skies.

No time did he lose there, however. Stealing softly for the woods, he sped on into them. Nor did he cease his hurried gait until he had covered at least a quarter of a mile.

"Not much risk of their finding me, now, even if they're wise at last,"

reflected the submarine boy, slowing down to an easier walk.

In all, Captain Jack must have gone nearly three-quarters of a mile from the scene of his late confinement when something occurred that made him fairly jump.

Ahead there came the sound of rapid steps. Then the sounds of a slight scuffle, followed by Don Melville's undoubted tones, shouting:

"Run, Benson! He'll never catch you now!"

"How on earth does Don Melville know I'm here?" quivered Jack, stopping short.

CHAPTER XII

THE CAPITALIST DOESN'T LIKE THE SITUATION

Someone was dashing through the woods straight at Jack Benson.

Almost immediately there came the yell, in baffled rage:

"Confound you, Don Melville! I'll settle with you for this!"

"That's Mr. Farnum's voice!" throbbed the real Jack, all agog with wonder.

Immediately there dashed between the trees a panting boy in a uniform identically like Benson's.

"That you, Hal?" shouted the real Jack.

"Yes," came a hoa.r.s.e answer.

"What's wrong?"

"Run to Farnum--quick!"

"You're a liar, whoever you are!" retorted Jack, putting himself in motion after the fugitive. "You're not Hal Hastings--nor yet Eph Somers!"

The race was a spirited one. The fugitive ran splendidly, gamely, but Jack Benson's wind had had a long rest, and now he was in the pink of condition for sprinting.

So, ere three hundred feet had been covered, the young submarine boy made a flying leap that carried him onto the shoulders of the fugitive down went both to earth.

"Now, hold quiet, will you, or shall I have to pummel your face out of any human likeness?" demanded Jack.

"Oh, Jack! Jack Benson! That you?" shouted the wondering voice of Jacob Farnum.

"Yes, and I've got some fellow who's masquerading in _our_ uniform!" yelled Captain Jack.

Jacob Farnum had succeeded in hurling Don Melville away from him, and now the all but exhausted boatbuilder came through the forest with lumbering steps.