anxiously.

"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