“Help! Help!”

Frank Chadwick, strolling along the water-front in Naples, stopped suddenly in his tracks and gazed in the direction from whence had come the cry of distress.

“Help! Help!” came the cry again, in English.

Frank dashed forward toward a dirty-looking sailors’ boarding house, from the inside of which he could distinguish the sounds of a struggle.

As he sprang through the door, at the far end of the room he saw a little man in a red sweater, unmistakably an American, apparently battling for his life with two swarthy Italians, both armed with gleaming knives.

Frank jumped forward with a cry, and as he did so, the Italians turned and fled. The little American wiped his face on his sleeve, and then turned to Frank with outstretched hand.

“You came just in time,” he declared. “I thought it was all up with me.”

“I’m glad I did,” replied the lad, grasping the other’s hand.

“Yes, sir,” continued the little man. “If you hadn’t-a-come, them dagos would-a-done for me sure.”

He led the way to an adjoining room, Frank following him. He sat down at a table and rapped loudly upon it.

“Let’s have a drink,” he said, as a greasy-looking Italian in an even more greasy apron entered the room.

“Thanks,” replied Frank; “but I don’t drink.”

“Oh, come on now,” urged the other; “take something.”

“No,” said Frank with finality. “I must go,” he continued, turning toward the door. “I am glad to have been of some assistance to you.”

But even as he turned the American in the red sweater stamped twice upon the floor and a trap door fell away beneath Frank’s feet. The lad caught a glimpse of water below.

His elbow struck the floor as he went down, and he fell head-first into a small rowboat. His head struck the bottom of the boat with sickening force, stunning him.

It was almost an hour later when his wits began to return to him. He took in the scene around him. He stood on the deck of a small schooner, and a great hulk of a man with an evil face stood near him, arguing with his friend of the red sweater.

“What is this thing you’ve brought me?” shouted the big man. “If we don’t look out we’ll step on it and break it. It hadn’t ought to be around without its ma.”

“Oh, he’ll do all right, captain,” replied the red sweater. “But I’ve got to skip or I’ll have the patrol boat after me. Do you sign or not?”

“Well, I’ll tackle this one, but if he ain’t up to snuff he’ll come back by freight, and don’t you forget it.”

The red sweater pocketed a note the captain handed him, went over the side of the schooner and rowed off.

Frank gazed about the schooner. Several dirty sailors, fully as evil looking as the captain, were working about the deck. Apparently they were foreigners. The captain appeared to be an American.

The captain, Harwood by name, turned to Frank.

“Get forward,” he commanded.

Frank drew himself up.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he exclaimed. “I demand to be put ashore.”

“Is that so,” sneered the big captain; “and why do you suppose I went to all this trouble to get you here, huh? Now you listen to me. I’m captain of this here tub, and what I say goes. Get forward!”

Still Frank stood still.

“Look here,” he began, “I——”

The captain knocked him down with a single blow of his great fist, and kicked his prostrate form. Then he picked him up, caught him by the neck and the slack of his coat and ran him forward to the hatchway, and flung him below.

As Frank picked himself up there descended upon him a deluge of clothes, followed by the captain’s voice.

“There’s your outfit, Willie, and it won’t cost you a cent. You’ve got two minutes to get into them, and I hope you won’t force me to give you any assistance.”

Frank Chadwick was a lad of discretion. Therefore he made haste to change, and in less than the allotted time he again emerged on deck.

Frank had just passed his sixteenth birthday. Always athletically inclined, he was extremely large for his age; and his muscles, hardened by much outdoor exercise, made him a match for many a man twice his age, as he had proven more than once when forced to do so.

His father was a well-to-do physician in a small New England town. For a lad of his years, Frank was an expert in the art of self-defense. Also he could ride, shoot and fence.

While the lad was by no means an expert with sailing vessels, he nevertheless had had some experience in that line. At home he had a small sailboat and in the summer months spent many hours upon the water. Consequently he was well versed in nautical terms.

This summer Frank and his father had been touring Europe. The war clouds which had hovered over the continent for weeks had finally burst while father and son were in Germany. In getting out of the country the two had been separated, and for two days now the lad had been unable to find Dr. Chadwick.

Frank was well up on his history, and this, together with the fact that his mother was of English descent, turned his sympathies with the allies. Also he was a student of literature and languages, and could converse fluently in French, German and Italian.

As has been said, Frank was a lad of discretion; which is the reason he appeared upon deck again within the two minutes allowed him by the captain.

He emerged from below with blood upon his face and the grime of an unclean ship upon his hands. As he came on deck he saw the crew of the schooner hurrying forward, six of them, Italians every one. On the quarterdeck stood the captain.

“Look at Willie,” shouted the captain in great glee. “Clap on to the starboard windlass brake, son.”

Frank saw the Italians ranged about what he supposed was the windlass in the bow. He took his place among them, grasping one of the bars.

“Break down!” came the next order, and Frank and the Italians obeyed, bearing up and down on the bars till the slack of the anchor chain came home and stretched taut and dripping from the hawse-holes.

“'Vast heavin’!”

Frank released his hold on the brake. Orders came thick and fast now, and Frank’s experience with his own sailboat stood him in good stead, and soon the schooner was beating out to sea.

The wind blew violent and cold, and the spray was flying like icy small-shot. The schooner rolled and plunged and heaved and sank and rose again. Frank was drenched to the skin and sore in every joint.

The captain at length ordered the cook to give the men their food.

“Get forward, son,” he commanded, fixing Frank with his eye.

Frank descended below. The Italians were already there, sitting on the edges of their bunks. The cook brought in supper, stewed beef and pork. A liquor that bore a slight resemblance to coffee was served. This was Black Jack.

“Well,” muttered Frank, looking at the mess of which the Italians were eating hungrily, “I’ve got to come to it some time.”

He took his knife from his pocket, opened the big blade and cut off a piece of pork. This he forced himself to eat. Then he once more went on deck.

Half an hour later the captain emerged from his cabin. Then he and an Italian he called Charlie, who, in the absence of a mate, appeared to be the second in command, began to choose the men for their watches. Frank found himself in the captain’s watch.

“I may as well tell you,” he said to the captain, “that I’m no sailor.”

“Well, you will be, son,” came the reply. “You’ll either be a sailor or shark bait.”

The watches divided, the captain said to Frank:

“Son, I’m going to do you a real favor. You can berth aft in the cabin with Charlie and me, and you can make free of my quarterdeck. Maybe you ain’t used to the way of sailormen, but you can take it from me those are two real concessions.”

“Will you tell me where we are bound, captain?” asked Frank.

“I’ll tell you it’s none of your business,” came the sharp reply. “You do as I say and ask no questions.”

About an hour later Frank turned in. The captain showed him his bunk. It was under the companionway that led down into the cabin. The captain bunked on one side and Charlie on the other.

As Frank made his way to his bunk, he saw a sight that caused him to catch his breath in surprise.

In a fourth bunk, above the one in which the captain slept, was the figure of another man. Approaching closer, Frank saw that the man was bound and gagged, and apparently unconscious.

“Hmmm,” he muttered. “Wonder what this means?”

And at his words the occupant of the bunk moved slightly and moaned.