Jack Benson was on his feet in an instant. An angrier boy it would have
been hard to find.

From overhead came the sound of a loud guffaw.

“Oh, you infernal scoundrel!” raged the submarine boy, shaking his fist in
the dark.

“W’at am de matter wid yo’, w’ite trash?” came the jeering query.

“Let me get my hands on you, and I’ll show you!” quivered Benson.

“Yah! Listen to yo’! Yo’ wait er minute, an’ Ah’ll show yo’ a light.”

Gr-r-r-r! Gr-r-r-r! That sound from overhead was not pleasant. Jack, in
the few seconds that were left to him, could only guess as to the cause of
the sounds. Then, some fifteen feet over his head, a tiny flame sputtered.
This match-end was carried to the wick of the lantern that the yellowish
guide had been carrying, and now the light illumined the place into which
Jack Benson had fallen.

That place was a square-shaped pit, with boarded sides. Up above, on a
shelf of flooring, knelt the late guide, grinning down with a look of
infernal glee. On either side of the mulatto stood a heavy-jowled
bull-dog. Both brutes peered down, showing their teeth in a way to make a
timid man’s blood run cold.

“Put those dogs back and come down here,” challenged Jack, shaking his