“Thank Heaven Rawlins fixed those suits so he could not breathe flames!” exclaimed Mr. Henderson, as the helmet was drawn from Tom’s head. “He’s breathing, Pauling!”
As he spoke, there was a disturbance at the door and the police stood aside as an ambulance surgeon pushed his way hurriedly into the room.
He bent over Tom in silence for an instant and then he glanced up and Mr. Pauling read good news in his eyes.
“Don’t worry!” he exclaimed. “He’s not hurt. Hasn’t breathed any water. Just in a faint, I think. He’ll be around in a moment. Hello! Here’s another!”
While he had been speaking, another helmeted form had appeared, dragging a limp figure, and, holding to the latter’s legs still another diver was climbing up the ladder.
“What the dickens!” exclaimed Mr. Henderson glancing up. “Who the devil are these? Two divers go down and four come up!”
Dropping the apparently lifeless diver on the floor Rawlins dragged off his helmet, glanced about in a puzzled way and then, without waiting to ask questions exclaimed, “Here, Doctor! Quick! Get at this chap!”
At his words, the doctor and his assistant sprang to the side of the form on the floor and rapidly stripped off his helmet and, as the man’s face was exposed, even the hardened surgeons could not restrain a gasp of horror and amazement. The
face was horrible to look upon. It was scorched, seared, blackened, the eyebrows burned off, the eyelids hanging in shreds, the sightless eyes staring white and opaque like those of a boiled fish. Rawlins gave a single glance at him.
“Oh, Lord!” he ejaculated. “He’s done for! He’s had flames from the chemicals in his helmet! Poor devil, he must have suffered!”