Jack flushed, then bit his tongue. In another moment a pallor had
succeeded the red in his face.

He was blamed for the disaster, and he was not really at fault.

Yet, under the rebuke he had just received, he did not feel it his place
to retort further for the present.

Mr. Mayhew and Mr. Trahern conferred in low tones for a moment or two.

“You may as well leave the bridge, young man,” resumed Mr. Mayhew, turning
upon the submarine boy. “You are not likely to be of any use here.”

As Jack, burning inwardly with indignation, though managing to keep
outwardly calm, descended to the deck below, he caught sight of Hal
Hastings, hovering near in the rowboat. Hal signaled to learn whether he
should put in alongside to take off his chum, but Benson shook his head.

Over on the “Farnum” the yard’s owner and Eph Somers watched wonderingly.
They understood, well enough, that the new, trim-looking gunboat was in
trouble, but they did not know that Jack Benson was held at fault.

Down between decks the engines of the “Hudson” were toiling hard to run
the craft off out of the sand. Then the machinery stopped. An engineer
officer came up from below. He and Mr. Mayhew walked to the stern, while a
seaman, accompanying them, heaved the lead, reading the soundings.

“We’re stuck good and fast,” remarked the engineer officer. “We can’t
drive off out of that sand for the reason that the propellers are buried
in the grit. They’ll hardly turn at all, and, when they do, they only