hotel in the town. “You—”

That was as far as the disgust of the clerk would permit him to go in
words. A score of well-dressed gentlemen were staring in astonishment at
the scene. The clerk nodded to two stout porters who had suspended their
work nearby.

It had been Jack Benson’s purpose to go to his room and keep out of sight,
while despatching one of the colored bell-boys of the hotel with a note to
Hal Hastings, asking that chum to send him up a uniform and other articles
of attire. However, before the young submarine captain fully realized what
was happening, the two porters had seized him. Firmly, even though gently,
they hustled him out through the entrance onto the street.

“Scat!” advised one of the pair.

Jack started to protest, then realized the hopelessness of such a course.
In truth, he did not blame the hotel folks in the least.

“Oh, well,” he sighed, paling as soon as the new flush of mortification
had died out, “there’s nothing for it but to hurry to the Academy. I hope
the sentries won’t shoot when they see me,” he added, bitterly.

Across the State Capitol grounds he hurried, then down through a side
street until he arrived at the gate of the Academy grounds.

“Halt!” challenged a sentry, as soon as Jack showed his face through the
gateway.

Young Benson stopped, bringing his heels together with a click.