to be the leader of it. The professor made a low bow.

"I presume," he said, "that I am in the presence of the proprietor of
this singular machine, and as I am a man of science I respect one who
could conceive and carry out the idea of a submarine ship."

There was no answer.

"Permit me to tell you our history," continued the professor.

Still no reply.

"He's remarkably polite," remarked Mont. "Perhaps he don't understand
our language."

"Leave him to me," said the professor; "my name may have an effect upon
him. I am Dr. Homer Woddle, Professor of Natural History, and Secretary
to the Society for the Exploration of the Unknown Parts of the World. I
have written valuable books, sir, which have been translated into
foreign languages."

The professor paused to look proudly around him.

Nothing in the face of the man before them indicated that he understood
one word.

Undaunted by this silence, the doctor continued:

"This, sir, is my friend Mr. Mont Folsom, this my friend Mr. Carl
Barnaby. The lad is their servant."

There was still no answer, and then the professor grew cross.

He spoke in French, then in German, finally in Greek and Latin; but with
the same disheartening effect.

Not a muscle of the stranger's face moved.

Turning to the right, he muttered some words in his incomprehensible
language, and, without making any reassuring sign to the prisoners,
turned on his heel and walked away, the door closing after him.

"Well, I'm blowed!" said Mont. "This is a queer go, and no mistake."

"I know one thing," said Carl; "that is, I am dying with hunger."

"If they would only give me a saucepan and some fire," said Stump, "I'd
make some soup."

"How?"

"I've got my boots, and the Unknown who came in let his sealskin cap
fall. I picked it up and sneaked it. The two together wouldn't make bad
soup."

While he spoke the door opened again, and another negro entered with a
tray upon which were four plates.

A savory smell issued from them. Knives and forks were provided, and
having placed the plates on the table the negro raised the covers.

"Food!" said Mont; "that's good."

"Not up to much, Master Mont, I'll bet," observed Stump.

"What do you know about it?"

"What can they give us? Porpoise stew, fillets of dogfish, or stewed
shark. I'd rather have some salt junk on board the ship."

The negro disappeared with the covers, and all but Stump sat down.

"Fire away, Stump," said Mont, look