Jacob Farnum made a wild dash for his office, telephoning for a messenger boy.  While waiting he wrote two telegrams in feverish haste.

Several of the newspaper people wrote hasty, excited dispatches to their papers for the evening editions.  The messenger boy, when he arrived on a run, was all but loaded down with paper.  Then the yard’s owner and the newspaper folks dashed back to the shore.

Out on the harbor the water lay unruffled.  There was not a sign of the suspected tragedy that lay beneath the waves.

“It’s an hour and a half since the boat sank,” called one of the correspondents.

“What were the boys supposed to do, anyway?” insisted another.

Jacob Farnum opened his mouth, as though to speak, then closed it again.

“Tell us,” insisted one woman.

“Yes, tell us,” insisted a man.

Just then, there came a shout over the waters.  “Say, you lubbers, what did you move that boat for?”

There was an instant gasp from all who turned so swiftly to look out over the water.

Only Jack Benson’s brown-haired head showed above the surface of the harbor, but his look was laughing, utterly care-free.

The boatmen who had allowed their craft to drift while waiting, now thrust out their oars, making quick time to where the submarine boy stood treading water.

In his sudden revulsion of feeling the inventor all but fainted.  Jacob Farnum, his gnawing suspense over, felt as though his knees must give way under him.  Then, by a mighty effort, just as the deafening cheering started, he led the race around the harbor.

“Here, you—­Jack Benson!” gasped the yard’s owner.  “You come in here mighty quick!  Give an account of yourself.  What was wrong below?”

“Wrong?” hailed back Benson, standing in the bow of the shore boat as it made for shore.

“What were you doing down below, all this time?” demanded Mr. Farnum.

“Doing?  Oh, Eph was taking a nap—­”

“Taking a nap?”

“Hal was tinkering with the gasoline motor, and I was reading.”

“Reading?” fumed Mr. Farnum.  “What were you trying to do?  Torment the life out of us?”

“Were any of you folks worried?” asked Jack, smiling innocently at the excited crowd.

“Worried?” ejaculated the boatbuilder.  “I’ve telegraphed for a diver and a wrecking company’s outfit.”

“Better countermand the order, air,” advised Jack, dryly.

“But what on earth caused all the delay?  What did it mean?” persisted the boatbuilder.  “Answer me, Benson.”

“Why,” laughed Jack, “when we started, I dropped a word or two about trying to make the exhibition dramatic, didn’t I?”

“If that’s what you tried to do, young man,” grunted one of the correspondents, “you’ve certainly succeeded.  Why, in five or ten minutes more the evening papers in half a dozen cities will have extras out announcing that one more big submarine boat disaster has occurred!”