Into the office of the hotel he
darted, going straight up to the desk.
A clerk who had been on duty for hours, and who was growing more drowsy
every moment, stared at the boy in amazement.
"See here, you ragamuffin, what--"
"My name is Benson," began the boy, breathlessly. "I'm a guest of the
house--arrived last night. I--"
"You, a guest of _this_ house?" demanded the clerk of the most select
hotel in the town. "You--"
That was as far as the disgust of the clerk would permit him to go in
words. A score of well-dressed gentlemen were staring in astonishment at
the scene. The clerk nodded to two stout porters who had suspended their
work nearby.
It had been Jack Benson's purpose to go to his room and keep out of sight,
while despatching one of the colored bell-boys of the hotel with a note to
Hal Hastings, asking that chum to send him up a uniform and other articles
of attire. However, before the young submarine captain fully realized what
was happening, the two porters had seized him. Firmly, even though gently,
they hustled him out through the entrance onto the street.
"Scat!" advised one of the pair.
Jack started to protest, then realized the hopelessness of such a course.
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