“There he is,” muttered Hal, stopping short. “Gracious! He acts queerly. I
wonder if anything can have happened to him? Come along, Eph!”

The two raced across the street.

“Jack, old fellow! What on earth’s the matter?” demanded Hal Hastings,
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.