“Hullo!” muttered the young submarine skipper, staring curiously about the
little stateroom aft. He had it to himself, the nurse having been put on
shore. “Under way, eh? This is the queerest start I ever made on a
voyage.”

Nor was it many moments later when Jack Benson stood on his feet. His
clothes were hung neatly on nails against the wall. One after another Jack
secured the garments, slowly donning them.

“How my head throbs and buzzes!” he muttered, his voice sounding unsteady.
“Gracious! What could have happened? Let me see. The last I
remember—passing that high fence—”

But it was all too great a puzzle. Benson finally decided to stop guessing
until some future time. He went on with his dressing. Finally, with his
blouse buttoned as exactly as ever, and his cap placed gingerly on his
aching head, he opened the stateroom door, stepping out into the cabin.

Accustomed as he was to sea motion, the slight roll of the “Farnum” did
not bother the young skipper much. He soon reached the bottom of the short
spiral stairway leading up into the conning tower. Up there, in the
helmsman’s seat, he espied Hal Hastings with his hands employed at the
steering apparatus. Hal was looking out over the water, straight ahead.

“Sailing these days without word from your captain, eh?” Jack called, in a
voice that carried, though it shook.

“Gracious—you?” ejaculated Hal, looking down for an instant. Then Hastings
pressed a button connecting with a bell in the engine room.