CHAPTER VII.
PENNINGTON GETS HIS WISH "The scoundrel!" gasped Farley, his face whiter than any of the others.
Dave was already at the door, trying to force it open.

But he might almost as well have tried to lift one of the twelve-inch guns of the battleship "Massachusetts." "We're locked in--that's sure!" gasped Dalzell, almost dazed by the catastrophe.
"And what's more, we won't get out in a hurry, unless we can make some of our classmates hear," declared Dave.
For the next half minute they yelled themselves nearly hoarse, but no response came.
"What could have been that little cockney's purpose in playing this shabby trick on us ?" demanded Farley.
"Perhaps the cockney thinks we're admirals, with our pockets lined with gold.

Perhaps he and some of his pals intend to rob us, later in the evening," proposed Dan, with a ghastly grin.
"Any gang would find something of a fight on their hands, then," muttered Dave Darrin grimly.
All three were equally at a loss to think of any explanation for such a "joke" as this.

Equally improbable did it seem that any thugs of the town would expect to reap any harvest from robbing three midshipmen.
Desperately they turned to survey their surroundings.

The shed was an old one, yet strongly built.