Boy Scouts in a Submarine | Page 2

the journey with us or not."
"Here's hopin' he don't!" cried Jimmie.
"He'll want us to sit in baby chairs at tables and object to our takin'
moonlight walks on the bottom of the sea! Is he covered all over with
brass buttons, an' does he strut like this?"
Jimmie bounded to the floor and walked up and down the room with a
mock military stride which set his companions into roars of laughter.
"I have never seen him," Ned replied. "He is coming here tonight, and
you must judge for yourself what kind of a man he is."
"Here?" asked Frank. "Here to this club-room? The boys won't do a
thing to him if he puts on dog!"
"Is he a submarine expert?" asked Frank.
"Sure!" replied Jack. "He wouldn't be sent here to post us if he wasn't,
would he?"
"I don't believe he knows any more about a submarine, right now, than
Ned does," Jimmie exclaimed. "Ned's been taking walks on the bottom
of the Bay every mornin' for a week!"
Jack and Frank turned to Ned with amazement showing on their faces.
"Have you, Ned?" they asked, in chorus.
"Have you been out training without letting us know about it?"
"You bet he has!" Jimmie grinned. "I've been with him most of the time
too. This Captain Moore, whoever he is, hain't got nothin' on Ned when
it comes to makin' the wheels go round under the water."
"Oh, you!" laughed Jack, pointing a finger at Jimmie. "You can't run a
submarine, even if Ned can."
"You wait an' see!" retorted the boy, indignantly. "You wait until we
get into the Chinese sea, then you'll see what I know about boats that
travel on ocean beds!"
"Can he run a submarine, Ned?" asked Jack.
"Well," was the laughing reply, "he did pretty well on the last trip. If
some one hadn't interfered with his steering I reckon he would have

tipped the Statue of Liberty into the Atlantic!"
Jimmie winked when the others roared at him and then looked
reproachfully at Ned.
"You promised not to tell about that!" he said, accusingly.
At that moment a knock came on the door of the clubroom, which was
on the top of the palatial residence of Jack Bosworth's father, and a
moment later a tall, military-looking man with a white, stern face, thin
straight lips and cold blue eyes was shown in. He paused just outside
the doorway, and the boy who did not catch the sneer on his chalky
face as he looked superciliously over the group must have been very
unobservant indeed.
"Gee! He don't seem to like the looks of us!" Jimmie whispered to
Frank Shaw, as Ned stepped forward to greet the newcomer.
"Looks like a false alarm!" Frank replied, in an aside. "I hope we don't
have to lug him along with us."
"We won't need any cold storage arrangement on the submarine if he
does go!" Jimmie went on. "That face of his would freeze hot steel."
Captain Moore of the United States Secret Service remained standing
near the door until Ned reached his side. Then he lifted a single glass,
inserted it in his eye-orbit and stood gazing at the boy who had
advanced to welcome him.
Ned stepped back, coldly, and Jimmie nudged Jack delightedly when
he saw the lad's face harden into bare civility.
"Aw," began the visitor, "I'm looking for--ah!--Mr. Nestor!"
"I'm Ned Nestor," said the boy, shortly.
"Fawncy!"
Ned pointed toward the table where the other boys were sitting and
moved away.
"Fawncy!" repeated the visitor.
Ned made no reply. Instead, he marched to the table, drew a chair
forward, and motioned Captain Moore to be seated.
Before complying with this gracious invitation the Captain glanced
around the apartment with the supercilious sneer he had shown on
entering. The boys watched him with heavy frowns on their faces.
"If we've got to take this along in the submarine," Jimmie whispered to
Jack, "I hope the boat will drop down into a deep hole and stay there.
Look at it!"

"Hush!" whispered the other. "It has ears!"
Those who have read the first and second volumes of this series will
understand without being told here that it was a very fine clubroom
upon which the frosty blue eyes of the Secret Service man looked.
The walls were adorned with all manner of hunting and fishing
paraphernalia, together with many trophies of the chase. Foils, gloves,
ball bats, paddles and many other athletic aids were scattered about the
large room.
This clubroom, that of the Black Bear Patrol, as has been said, was the
handsomest in New York, the members of the Patrol being sons of very
wealthy men. The father of Frank Shaw was editor and owner of one of