“That’s my ticket!” assented Gale. “And anyway, our boat, some of it, will get through, with all these air-tight compartments, and we can put some messages in each one, so if any pieces are picked up the folks will know what became of us.”
We began doing this at once, for we felt that the entrance to the dark tunnel could not be far distant. The walls on either side were becoming very high, and in places drew inward alarmingly. The river was narrowing too, and was much swifter.
“We couldn’t get up, now, if we wanted to,” commented Gale, presently, “and say, Nick, there’s a bend just ahead.”
But it was not a bend. The walls bent, truly, but they bent inward, and far above they joined. Below was a depth of blackness into which our eyes could pierce but a little way.
It was the “Passage of the Dead!”
We hastily slackened our speed to consider a little. Gale was making a calculation.
“It’s now ten o’clock,” he said, at last, “and as nearly as I can figure, the tide ought to be about half down in Bottle Bay. It’ll be low tide at—say one o’clock, and high tide again about seven, unless the wind’s blowing in there. That would bring the tide up earlier. What we want to do, Nick, is not to waste a minute, so’s to get there if we can before the tide closes the entrance again.”
“Why run that risk?” I shivered. “Why not figure to get there at low tide?”
“Because,” explained Gale, “that tide don’t stop at the opening. It comes on up—perhaps a good ways. When it’s low tide there, there’s a high tide somewhere this side, and coming this way. I don’t know how fast, or how far it would come, or how far up it would close this passage. But somewhere we’ve probably got to meet that tide, and the farther up this way it is, the less likely it’ll be to rise higher than the ceiling.”
I had another spasmodic seizure at this suggestion. It amounted to almost a chill, in fact, and Gale considerately waited until I was better. Then he said: