And then, from below the submarine, a strange shape darted through the water—a dark form which, for an instant, the boys took for some huge fish.
Straight towards the struggling diver it sped and as the light fell upon it the boys shouted and yelled, the men cheered, for it was no fish but a man! A man, naked and black, swimming at utmost speed—Sam the negro hurrying to Rawlins’ aid!
Hardly had those at the ports realized it was Sam before he was at the scene of battle. For a brief instant he poised motionless above the diver and his antagonist and then, quickly and gracefully as a seal, he plunged straight down at the octopus. There was a flash of steel in the light, the water was blackened with the polyp’s ink. Through the thick, murky, discolored water only confused, rapidly moving forms were visible and scarcely breathing, those within the submarine gazed and waited. Would Sam be able to kill the creature? Could he hold out long enough to win the battle? Could he free Rawlins?
Then as the water cleared and the light once more penetrated the depths, rousing cheers went up from the watchers, they laughed hysterically, tears rolled down their cheeks, for slowly, painfully but surely, Sam was coming back, while behind him, half dragging himself along, but apparently uninjured, was Rawlins. Upon the bottom where he had stood a shapeless squirming, pulpy mass was all that remained of the octopus and about it, swarmed voracious fishes snapping at the dying, flaccid tentacles. The battle was over. Rawlins was safe. Sam had won. Naked, armed only with a knife, he had attacked the monster of the sea, had literally hacked it to bits and had returned unharmed.
“Gosh!” cried Tom. “Gosh!” and unable to say another word, utterly overcome, he slumped down upon a cushioned seat faint from the strain he had undergone.
Frank swayed unsteadily and sank down beside his chum while Mr. Pauling and the others wiped their wet brows, licked their dry lips and grasped one another’s hands in silent thanksgiving, too overcome to speak.
CHAPTER VIII—LOST
Long before they had recovered from their fright, from the strain and the reaction, Rawlins appeared, his face pale, but with its habitual cheerful grin and half-carrying Sam.
“I’ll say that was a close call!” he exclaimed, as he placed the negro on a seat. “Say, get some brandy or whisky quick! Sam’s all in.”
As the others crowded about, laughing, congratulating, expressing their relief and joy at his escape and forcing liquor between Sam’s blue lips, Rawlins was busily chafing and rubbing the man’s cold body and limbs, slapping his chest and back and giving orders.