CHAPTER VII

A LESSON IN SECURITY AND INFORMATION

Despite the savageness of his utterance Millard continued to gaze
thoughtfully, for a few moments, at the submarine boy's face.

As the rascal gazed, however, a grayness came into his cheeks that,
somehow, smote Captain Jack with secret terror.

"I--I don't see how it can be helped," gasped Millard, at last, in an
altered tone that came as another dash of ice water over the submarine
boy. "Benson, I hate to do it. I'd hate to use a dog in such a way,
but--but there's no help for it!"

A long-drawn-out sigh, a still queerer look in his face, then the
scoundrel broke forth again:

"It's your own fault, after all, boy, and there's no help for it."

"By and by I suppose you'll enlighten me as to what 'it' means?" hinted
Jack, trying hard to bolster up a courage that, none the less, would
ooze and drop.

Millard's only answer was to bend over the boy and roll him somewhat in
examining the prisoner's bonds. It was through this that Jack discovered
what he had not known before--namely, that his wrists, besides being
bound behind his back, were also lashed fast to something in the
flooring.

There was a queer little choke in Millard's breathing as he went out of
the room and returned with a bushel basket of shavings. These he
dumped on the floor, close to a wall. Then, again, he went out. When
he returned he was carrying a can of coal-oil. The contents he poured
over the shavings, then against the wall. Next, over the shavings, he
heaped three or four newspapers.

Jack Benson didn't ask questions. Millard went at it all in such a
business-like way that the submarine boy felt the words sticking in
his throat; they couldn't be uttered.

Finally, when all else was ready, Millard took the lighted candle out
of the candlestick.

"This candle will burn for thirty minutes yet," guessed the wretch,
noting its unburned length with the air of an expert "That will be time
enough. Poor lad!"

He set the lighted candle down on top of the papers, over the pile of
oil-soaked shavings. It fitted nicely into a place that the wretch
had made ready for it. Then, without a word, the long-legged one
tip-toed softly over and bent beside the submarine boy.

"Open your mouth," he ordered.

Of course Captain Jack didn't propose to do anything of the sort. With
one hand, however, Millard gripped the boy's nostrils, pressing tightly.
Just a little later Jack had to