Not realizing much, in his approaching stupor, Hal Hastings allowed
himself to be coaxed to stretch himself at full length in the downy berth.

Almost immediately he closed his eyes, drifting off into stupor.

“Why, your friend _is_ drowsy, isn’t he?” laughed the bearded one, turning
to the submarine skipper.

Jack Benson’s own eyelids were suspiciously close together.

“Why—what—ails you?”

Curtis spoke in a low, droning, far-away voice that caused Jack Benson’s
upper eyelids to sink. Curtis stood watching him, in malicious glee, for
some moments. Then, at last, he took hold of the young skipper.

“Come, old fellow,” coaxed the bearded one, “you’ll do best to join your
friend in a good nap. Get up in the berth.”

“Lemme alone,” protested the boy, thickly, feeling that he was being
lifted. Jack struggled, partly rousing himself.

“Come, get up into the berth. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

“Lemme alone. What are you trying to do?” demanded Jack, swinging an arm.

Curtis dodged the light blow, then gripped Jack Benson resolutely.

“Now, see here, young man,” hissed the bearded one, “I’m not going to have
any more nonsense out of you. Up into the berth you go! Do you want me to