“Are we still going down?” asked Jerry.
“A little, yes. About five hundred feet is as deep as we can go, for, even in this wonderful boat, which is the best submarine I ever saw or heard of, the weight of water much below five hundred feet would crush us like an egg shell. In fact there are very few boats of this class that go more than two hundred feet down, and really that depth isn’t necessary even in war time. But we members of the crew are not supposed to give out information. Dr. Klauss would not like it. So you’ll have to excuse me.”
“That’s all right,” said Jerry. The man seemed a pleasant chap, and spoke like a person of intelligence. Jerry was glad he was aboard, for somehow, the tall lad felt an indefinable sense of danger.
The boys were taken to small adjoining staterooms, where they were told to change, and put their wet garments outside. The clothing that had been supplied to them was all sorts of odds and ends, evidently collected from different members of the crew. But it was dry and warm, and a welcome relief from their drenched garments, the wearing of which much longer would have given them all colds.
“This is some change from out in that storm, on the back of this submarine, knocking to be let in; isn’t it, fellows?” called Jerry from his stateroom.
“I should say yes,” agreed Ned. “Poor old Comet! What do you suppose happened to her?”
“I’m afraid she’s broken up,” answered Jerry, mournfully. “Once the pontoons give way, the weight of the engines will sink her. Well, we can build another.”
“Or a submarine,” added Ned.
“First we’ve got to see if we can get off of this one,” said Jerry in a low voice.
“What do you mean?” asked Ned, who had dressed quickly, and now stood at the door of his chum’s stateroom.