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Ned nodded.
"I compliment you on your generalship," he said contemptuously.
A few seconds later they moved off. Muller led the way. By his side shuffled a figure strangely familiar to both lads, but neither of them could place it. All their efforts to catch a glimpse of the two leaders' features were cheated too, both by the light and the fact that they kept their faces studiously turned away.
They pressed on for a mile or two through woods and across fields, and presently a whiff of salt-laden air struck Ned in the face.
"We're getting near the sea," he thought. "I wonder if they mean to take us off some place in a boat?"
But conversation had now ceased between Chance and Merritt, and the others were too far ahead for the lads to catch a word. Before long they emerged, without warning, from a clump of woods, directly upon a wide expanse of salt meadows. The lonely wastes stretched as far as the eye could see. Fleeting glimpses of moonlight, as the clouds swept across the sky, showed the glimmer of the ocean beyond. They could catch the sullen roar of the surf on the beach.
Without hesitation, Herr Muller struck out across the salt meadows, following a narrow path between the hummocks of salt grass. Here and there they crossed stretches of marshy land where the oozy mud came to their ankles.
All at once there suddenly shot up from the gloomy wastes the rectangular outlines of a large building of some kind. As they drew closer to the dark bulk the boys could see that the walls were pierced with numerous windows in monotonous rows. Soon the further fact became evident that each window was barred. There was something indescribably depressing about the aspect, – the gloomy, vast outlines of the dark, deserted building ahead of them, and the pallidly moonlit wastes of salt meadow all about it.
What could the place be? No light appeared in any of the numerous apertures, and the silence hung heavily about it. Suddenly there flashed across Ned the recollection of a flight he had taken some days before when he had soared above a building which, in the daylight, resembled this lonely place. The sight of it standing isolated and vast in the midst of its wild surroundings had impressed him, and on his return he had inquired about it. They had told him that it was an old lunatic asylum. The state had erected it there some years before, but the atmosphere of the salt meadows had proved malarious, and it had been abandoned.
A bulbous-nosed, red-faced old tippler in the village had also been pointed out to him as a man who held down "a soft snap," by being appointed "watchman" to the deserted pile. Evidently the keys had been obtained from him and the gloomy buildings were their destination.
That this was the case they were speedily to learn. Herr Muller approached a stout-looking door, in the top of which was a small, grated opening. Inserting a key he turned the lock and flung the door open. A damp, decaying odor, – the breath of a deserted human dwelling place, – rushed out. In spite of himself Ned shuddered. It reminded him of the crypt of an old church he had inspected in Spain when the ships were on their European cruise.
Muller, who seemed to know the way, threaded several long passages carrying a candle which he had ignited at the doorway. In this manner they traversed a considerable distance. At every turn fresh corridors, long and empty, appeared. The place was a maze of passages and stairways.
At length he paused in front of a rather small door at the end of a hall which, judging from the stairs they had climbed, must have been near the top of the building. He flung this door open, and the next instant the candle was extinguished, – evidently with the intention of concealing his features, – and the boys were roughly thrust forward.
If they had not been taken totally by surprise they might have resisted. But the shoves came suddenly, and projected them into a room through the door before they realized what was happening. The next instant the door clanged behind them, just as Herc hurled himself against it.
They heard the lock grate and some bolts clang heavily as they were fastened in.
"Bottled!" gasped Herc, truthfully if slangily.
But Ned had pulled out his pocket lantern and was examining the place in which they had been imprisoned. He was struck by something peculiar about it. He reached out a hand and felt the walls. They were smooth and yielding. They had been covered with some soft substance. High up was a small window with thick metal bars.
"What sort of a place is this?" gasped Herc as he, in his turn, felt the yielding, cushioned walls. "These walls feel like the upholstered chairs in the skipper's cabin."
Ned battled with a catch in his voice before he replied. He had grasped the truth of their almost hopeless situation.
"Herc, old boy," he said, putting a hand on his shipmate's shoulder, "brace up for a shock. This place is a deserted lunatic asylum, and they've locked us in what was formerly used as a padded cell for solitary confinement."
CHAPTER XII
"STOP WHERE YOU ARE!"
It is a curious fact that most absolutely overwhelming predicaments do not at first strike in upon their victims with the crushing force that would be imagined. This was evidenced by Herc's rejoinder to Ned's startling information.
"Great ginger!" he exclaimed, "I guess we're in just the place where we belong. If we hadn't gone blundering into that trap we wouldn't have been in this fix, and if we hadn't – "
"Left the farm and enlisted in the navy we wouldn't have been here either," retorted Ned.
A scrutiny of their prison confirmed Ned in his first judgment of its character. The walls, though padded, were solid, and seemingly impenetrable. The window was far too high up to be reached, and even if they could have got to it, it could be seen that the steel bars were set solidly into the masonry. The door, which was examined in its turn, proved to be likewise of solid oak. No lock appeared on it. Doubtless this was to prevent any of the unfortunates formerly confined in the place from injuring themselves on projecting bolts.
At the bottom of the door, however, a peculiar contrivance appeared. It was a small, hinged flap, which, when raised, revealed an opening some six inches square. The thought suggested itself to Ned that it might have been used once as a means for giving food or drink to the incurables confined within during their violent spells.
He opened the flap and thrust his hand through. A vague hope had entered his mind that he might be able to reach up as far as the bolts on the outside. If he could have done this he could have opened them. But, as might have been expected, this was not feasible. Ned had the exasperating experience of being able, by the utmost exertion, to touch the bottom of the bolt with his finger-tips, but that was all. Even then he had to shove his arm so far through the hole that it was grazed and sore when he withdrew it.
"W-e-l-l?" said Herc slowly, as they sank down side by side on a sort of bench, padded like the rest of the interior of the place.
"W-e-l-l?" retorted Ned, "so far as I can see, if we were sealed up in one of the Manhattan's air-tight magazines we would have just about as good a chance of getting out as we have of escaping from this place."
"Same here," agreed Herc woefully. "What are we going to do? Do you think they'll starve us to death?"
Barren of hope as the situation appeared, Ned could not help smiling at Herc's woebegone tone.
"They'd hardly dare to do that," he rejoined; "this is the twentieth century, and such things as law and order prevail. No, I guess they have some sort of trickery on hand with which we might interfere, and they mean to keep us locked up here till they have carried out their rascally plans."
"Talking of plans, did they take back the ones of the pontoon aeroplane?"
"No," exclaimed Ned, brightening, "thank goodness that's one thing they seem to have forgotten. Anyhow I suppose they know they have us at their mercy and can get them any time they want them."
"Reckon that's it," agreed Herc.
Silence ensued. The two boys sat side by side in the pitchy blackness of their prison, for Ned, anxious to reserve it for emergencies, had extinguished the electric torch. Neither of them was a nervous sort of youth, but the long vigil in the dark was enough to get on anybody's nerves.
"This is certainly a tough situation," remarked Ned after a time. He spoke more for the sake of hearing his own voice than for any novel idea the words might convey.
"Not giving up, are you, Ned?" inquired Herc.
"Giving up?" grated out the elder Dreadnought Boy, "I'm like Paul Jones – I've just begun to fight."
"When did Paul Jones say that?" asked Herc.
"Why, that time that the British captain, Pearson, peered through the smoke surrounding his majesty's ship Serapis and the little Bonhomme Richard.
"Pearson hailed Paul Jones and shouted out, 'Have you struck your colors yet?'
"It was then that Paul Jones sent back that answer. Those were grand words, Herc. They ought to be framed and placed on board every vessel in Uncle Sam's navy."
"Yes, Paul Jones was a wonderful sea-fighter all right," agreed Herc, "but I wonder what he'd have done if he'd been cooped up in here."
"Figured on some way of getting out," rejoined Ned promptly. "Time after time British frigates hemmed him in. They thought they had him trapped. But every time he slipped through their fingers and resumed his career as a sea tiger. With his little bit of a junk-shop fleet he did more to establish the name of Americans as sea fighters than any man in the republic."
"But how about Ben Franklin, who advanced the money to buy the ships, or at least saw that it was raised?" asked the practical Herc.
"Well, of course he helped," admitted Ned, "but even he couldn't save Paul Jones from his country's ingratitude. Why, it was a hundred years or more before his bones were discovered in an obscure spot in Paris, where he died in poverty, and were brought back to this country and buried with the honors they deserved."
"Humph!" observed Herc, "that was a pretty shabby way to treat one of our biggest naval heroes. Wish we had him here now. What was that old anecdote you told me once about Paul burning his way out of a prison some place?"
"Oh, that!" laughed Ned. "I guess that was a bit of imagination on the part of the writer. At any rate it isn't mentioned in the histories. It was one time that they locked Paul Jones in the cabin of a British vessel. They thought they had him safe. But he ripped out the lining of stuffed cushions of the captain's sofas and burned a way out through a port hole that they thought was securely locked. I read it in an old book I picked up in Philadelphia, but I guess the book was more fiction than fact."
Another silence ensued, and then Herc spoke. He took up the conversation where it had been left off.
"It's worth trying," he said in a matter-of-fact tone.
"What's worth trying?" asked Ned, through the darkness.
"Why Paul Jones' trick – or rather the trick he is supposed to have played."
"Oh, burning himself out of prison?"
"Yes."
"I don't see the connection with our case."
"Then you are a whole lot denser than I gave you credit for being."
"Thanks. But I see you've got an idea of some sort simmering in that massive brain of yours. What is it?"
"Just this, that we duplicate the trick."
"By ginger, Herc, there's nothing slow about you. You mean that we burn ourselves out of here?"
"That's just what I do. See any obstacles in the way?"
"A whole fleet of them. For one thing we'd suffocate ourselves if we tried to burn the door down, which is, I suppose, what you are driving at. Another thing – how about matches?"
"I've got lots of those. Now see here, Ned," went on Herc enthusiastically, "my plan may seem just moonshine, but it's worth trying. You know that little swinging trap at the bottom of the door?"
"Yes."
"Well, we can build our fire outside the door by thrusting our fuel through it and out into the passage. My idea is that the flames will rise against the surface of the door, and if we make them hot enough will burn off the bolts without setting the whole door on fire. The oak is thick enough, I think, to remove all danger of that."
"Humph!" said Ned. "There's only one thing you haven't thought of, Herc."
"What's that?"
"What are we going to build a fire with?"
"With the same stuff as Paul Jones did – or rather stuff somewhat like it – the soft lining of these padded walls."
"Say, Herc, you're a wonder! I always said you had a great brain," cried Ned banteringly, "but hasn't it occurred to you that your fire would burn out the floor of the passage and set the place on fire before it would get the bolts hot enough to make them drop off?"
"It might if the floors and walls were not concrete. I noticed them as we came along," rejoined Herc in a quiet voice.
"Herc, you ought to be director of the Smithsonian Institute or – or something big," declared Ned admiringly. "It does begin to look as if we might have a chance to get out, after all. At any rate, it's worth trying. It will give us something to do."
"Of course it will," responded Herc cheerfully; "and now, if you'll switch on that light of yours, we'll start pulling the materials for our fire off these walls."
It didn't take long to rip out a great pile of the batting and shavings with which the walls were stuffed. These were thrust through the hole in the bottom of the door into the passage outside as fast as they were pulled out. At last the pile was declared large enough, and, with a big heap in reserve for use when the other had burned out, the boys prepared to light the mass of inflammable stuff.
It blazed up fiercely when the match was applied, but, of course, as it was outside the door in the concrete passage, the flames did not bother the boys or imperil the building. On their hands and knees the two young prisoners crouched, feeding the flames assiduously when they showed signs of dying down. There was plenty of fuel, and a roaring fire was maintained.
All at once there was a soft thud outside the door, and something dropped into the flames. It was one of the heavy bolts which had torn loose from its charred and weakened fastenings. A few minutes later another crash announced that the second one had fallen.
The lads waited a few minutes, till the fire died down, and then, with beating hearts, they put their shoulders to the door.
"Heave!" roared Ned, and the next moment, under their united efforts, the remaining bolt tore loose from its blackened foundations, and the two Dreadnought Boys stood outside in the smoke-filled passage.
"Let's give three cheers!" cried Herc.
"Better be careful about making a noise," counselled Ned. "No telling but some of those rascals may be hiding in the building somewhere."
"That's right," agreed Herc. "Another thing has occurred to me, too. All the windows of this delightful place are barred, and if the door has been locked and the place vacated, we're going to have a hard time to get out, even now."
"That's right. Well, we'd better start on our tour of exploration right away."
Guided by Ned, with his torch ready for instant darkening, the two lads began to thread the maze of corridors and passages. They had been doing this for several minutes, and were beginning to get rather bewildered, when Ned stopped suddenly just as they entered a long corridor pierced with doors, with the same monotonous regularity as the others. He extinguished the light in the wink of an eye, and drew Herc swiftly into the embrasure of a doorway as he did so.
Far down the corridor a footstep had sounded, and another light had flashed. As they crouched in the darkness, prepared for any emergency, a sudden voice sounded from the end of the corridor:
"Stop right where you are, or I'll fire!"
CHAPTER XIII
HARMLESS AS A RATTLESNAKE
"I beg your pardon, sir, but could I speak to you a moment?"
"Certainly; come in, Chance," rejoined Lieutenant De Frees, who was sitting in his quarters on the aviation testing ground the morning after the events narrated in our last chapter.
"It's – it's about Strong and Taylor, sir, that I wished to speak," said Chance, twisting his cap in his hands. His crafty face looked more fox-like and mean than ever. His manner was almost cringing.
Lieutenant De Frees jumped to his feet.
"You've got news of them?" he exclaimed. "Out with it, my lad. They are not the boys to be absent without good reasons, although I fear that if they have overstayed their leave without just cause they must be disciplined."
"That's just it, sir," said Chance. "I – I don't want to make trouble, sir, but I'm afraid that Strong and Taylor are not all that you think them, sir. I would have spoken at roll-call this morning when they were reported absent without leave, but I thought that maybe they would turn up."
"Well, what do you know about them? Come, out with it," urged the officer sharply.
He had never liked Chance, and the seaman's furtive manner irritated him.
"Why, you see, sir, Merritt and I happened to be in town last night, sir, and we saw Strong and Taylor associating with some disreputable characters, sir. We warned them, but they laughed at us, sir. We continued to urge them to come with us, however, but they only swore at us."
"What!" exclaimed the officer, startled out of his official calm, "you saw Strong and Taylor in undesirable surroundings and with disreputable characters, and you mean to say that that is the reason for their non-appearance this morning?"
"That's just it, sir," rejoined Chance. "The last we saw of them was as they were turning into a drinking resort. I fear that some harm must have come to them, sir."
"Why – why – confound it all, I'd almost rather cut off my right hand than hear such a report, Chance. You are certain that you are correct in your report?"
"Absolutely certain, sir," was the response; "there could be no mistake. I hope I am not doing wrong in reporting this, sir?"
"No, no, my man, you have done perfectly right," was the answer, although the officer's face was troubled. The news that his most trusted pupils should have misconducted themselves had shaken him a good deal.
"Good heavens, can one place no trust in human nature?" he thought. "I'd have staked my commission that those boys were absolutely clean-lived and upright."
"Is – is there anything else you'd like to know, sir?" Chance edged toward the door as he spoke.
"No, no. That's all, my man. You may go."
"Thank you, sir."
And Chance, his despicable errand performed, slid through the door in the same furtive way in which he had entered.
"If they haven't returned by eight bells, and there is no news of them in the meantime, I'll have to send out a picket to bring them in," mused the officer when Chance had departed. "Then disgrace and 'the brig' will follow, and two promising careers will be blasted. Strong and Taylor, of all people. I can't understand it. And yet there can be no other explanation of their absence."
Dismissing the matter from his mind for the time being, Lieutenant De Frees continued his official work. Outside on the field his subordinates attended to the morning practice of the flying squad. Half an hour must have passed thus, when a sudden knock at the door caused him to look up.
"Come in!" he said, in a sharper voice than usual. The news that his favorites had so fallen from grace had distressed him more than even he cared to own to himself.
In response to his words, the door swung open, and there, framed in the doorway, stood the two very individuals whose absence had so worried him.
Ned and Herc clicked their heels together sharply and gave the salute in a precise manner.
"We've reported on duty, sir," said Ned in a steady voice.
The officer looked at them blankly. Their clothes were torn, although an effort had seemingly been made to mend them and clean them of traces of mud and dirt. A bruise appeared on Ned's face, while Herc's hair was rumpled and standing up wildly. Their appearance bore out the story the officer had heard. Two more disreputable-looking beings it would have been hard to picture.
"So this is the way you men repay my trust in you?" said the officer in sharp, harsh tones, very unlike his usual ones. "You will both consider yourselves under arrest, pending an inquiry. Remain standing till I summon a guard."
The lads' absolutely dumfounded looks at this reception did not escape the officer's attention.
"Well, have you any explanation to offer?" he demanded. "Mind, don't attempt to lie to me. I know all of your proceedings, dating from the hour that you, Strong, left my quarters."
"You mean that you have heard we have been engaged in some discreditable prank, sir?" asked Ned firmly, but respectfully, and still standing – as did Herc – stiffly at attention.
"I mean just that," was the response. "Since when has it been the custom in the United States navy for men to disgrace the service and go unpunished?"
"And yet," said Ned, in the same well-disciplined tones, "it hasn't been the custom to condemn men unheard, sir."
"I have heard quite enough, already," was the sharp answer. "If you have anything to add to what Chance has told me, you may. But I warn you that any explanation you may offer will be investigated thoroughly, and if it is found you have been lying, it will go harder with you than otherwise."
"I think you will find it is Chance who has been lying, sir," said Ned calmly. "May I tell you our side of the story, dating from the hour you mentioned?"
"You may, but make it brief. My time is fully occupied," was the cold response.
But, as Ned struck into his story, telling it in a calm, even tone, the officer's expression changed from one of hard incredulity to blank astonishment, passing rapidly to deep indignation.
"We were startled soon after gaining our freedom," related Ned, going on with his narrative from the point where we left the lads, "by the sound of a voice calling on us to halt. A few minutes later we found that the man who had given the order was the local constable, Ezra Timmons. He is a farmer on the outskirts of the town, and had been driving home late from selling some produce, when he noticed lights in the old asylum. He decided to investigate, and did so. He found the door open, and, penetrating the place, soon encountered us. He took us home with him, and helped us clean up a bit, and then we hastened over here to report."
"And that's true, by gum, every dinged word uv it!" came a voice outside the open door. Farmer – and Constable – Timmons stepped into the room, dramatically throwing back his coat and exposing a big tin star, just as he had seen constables in rural dramas do.
"But they ain't told it all," he rushed on. "These two lads here saved my wife frum some ruffians what wanted ter rob her the t'other day. They sailed by in their sky-buggy jus' in time ter save ther spoons thet Gran'ma Timmons willed me on her dyin' bed, by heck! – and it's my idee that this same gang of roustabouts was consarned in thet, frum what I kin judge."
The officer pressed a button. An orderly responded, coming smartly to attention.
"Send for Merritt and Chance at once," he ordered.
The orderly saluted and turned like an automaton.
Constable Timmons gazed at him in amazement.
"Is thet feller real or jes' one uv them clockwork dummies yer read about?" he asked.
"He's real, constable," smiled Lieutenant De Frees, with some amusement. He then began questioning the boys concerning every detail of their experiences. Nor did he forget to acknowledge that he had wronged them on the word of a rascal.
"It must have been their intention to keep you there until they had made up their minds what to do with you," he said. "But they shall not go unpunished. If a summary court martial can deal with their cases it shall do so, and at once. Well?" he added interrogatively, as the orderly entered the room once more.
He saluted as before, to Constable Timmons' undisguised wonder, and then said in precise tones: