Glancing up for a moment, what was the delight of the youth battling with death to see the Dewey bearing down upon him!

Some one had seen him and they were coming to his rescue.

The sight renewed his strength.  After what seemed a long while Jack was able to clutch the collar of his chief officer.  “Little Mack” was unconscious.

By degrees Jack succeeded in turning over the limp form until it floated face upward.  Locking his left arm securely around the neck of the apparently lifeless officer so that the face was held above the surface of the water, and using his strong right arm and legs, Jack began swimming as best he could in the general direction of the submarine that he knew to be not far away.

The weight of the lieutenant’s body dragged heavily upon his left arm.  His strength was ebbing away fast.  His arm became numb and his senses chaotic.

Instinctively the lad closed his eyes.  It seemed he must let loose the burden tugging in his arms and himself slip away into the depths and into that long sweet sleep that seemed just now so alluring, so compelling.

“Catch the rope when I fling it”—–­the words were borne into his stifled senses.  It sounded like the voice of his good chum.

Was it Ted?  Again came the call, seemingly closer at hand.  It was Ted, now faintly, now more clearly.  The sound of that voice galvanized the youth in the water.

Jack flung out his free limbs in a frenzy of muscular energy.  Something loomed up in the blue of the sky near him and he beheld for one instant the periscopes of the Dewey.

She was drawing closer to the pair in the water!

On the deck stood a number of the crew disregarding the floating mines that had been engaging their attention.  Someone was whirling a rope, aiming to throw it to the pair in the water.  Every one seemed to be yelling at the same time.

“Hold on—–­we are coming—–­don’t let go—–­catch the rope!” Jack heard the calls from his shipmates.

Out over the water spun a coil of rope—–­only to fall short of the desired mark and trail off into the sea many yards from the floating pair.  Yes, it was Ted, winding frantically again, and yelling encouragement to his chum.

“Hold ’em!” Ted shouted over and over again, just as the Brighton lads had been wont to yell in unison at their football games when the opposing eleven was smashing its way toward Brighton’s goal.  Once again the coil was ready; once again it was flung outward from the deck of the Dewey.  This time it fairly lashed Jack’s face.  The sting of the hemp seethed to whip new courage into him.  Making one last frantic effort he clutched and held the precious rope, just as Ted sprang from the submarine and dived to the rescue.

Jack remembered no more.  When he came to he was stretched in his bunk in the hold of the Dewey.  Ted was bending over him.