"The drink," he murmured, while his brain swam, and his soundings disappeared in a mist. "They've drugged me." "You belong to that battleship?" roared the captain, but Felton had sunk to the floor, incapable of voluntary action. The captain blew a whistle, and his crew answered. They surrounded him, with scowling faces, and lifted him to his feet. He could stand, but some inhibitory power prevented him from moving a muscle. Foremost among them was the man he had trounced, and this man struck him, again and again, in the face, and Felton essayed to strike back; but the paralysis of his muscles prevented him. His blows fell short. "Back to the battleship," thundered the captain. "Load him into the tube. Expend that torpedo and make room." Men sprang to the tube and turned levers. The captain sprang to the periscope. "Right," he said. "I'll finish her." How an airship could fire a torpedo was beyond Felton's benumbed faculties at the time. He was struggling weakly, trying to strike, but unable to, pounded on the face and body by the implacable victim of his fists in the former fight, helplessly borne along toward the tube, now emptied of water. "Back to the battleship," they chorused. "In with him." Powerless to resist he was jammed head first into the tube. He heard the door creak into place behind him. Then he felt an impact of cold water, and he had barely sense to forestall this by an inhalation of air. Then, faintly as the voice of a telephone, came the voice of a man. "The forrard door's jammed, it won't open." "Hammer it," came the captain's voice. "Get a top-maul." An age or two went by, while Felton lay imprisoned in the tube, holding his breath, and immersed in water. Then, faintly as the voices, came the sound of a heavy hammer on the walls of the tube: "Clang-clang, clang-clang." Felton awoke in his berth, as wet with perspiration as though still immersed in that tube. The gun-room orderly tapped at his door. "Eight bells, sir," he said. "All right," he answered. "Eight bells," he murmured to himself. "I heard the first four of them--let's see--about twelve hours ago. Twelve hours of experience between the fourth and fifth strokes. How long does a dream take? Darn a dream, anyhow." ABSOLUTE ZERO He was not exactly an imbecile--merely feeble-minded, unable to remember his past, or even the events of a year gone by--an elderly man who loafed about the studio building, a man with few wants and no vices, who picked up a scanty living by cleaning up studios for the artists, and occasionally posing for them. We called him Old Bill; he did not know his last name, and was subject to fainting spells.