“Yes! I.” If the missionary smiled bitterly, no one saw it in the darkness. “Oh! I know you all think I am a coward, and perhaps I am. Certainly, I did not dare to oppose Captain Forbes, nor to—— But never mind. I can swim like a fish almost. It is my one manly accomplishment. I can get through the weed if any man can—and if I fail, you will have lost nothing. Come! show me what to do.”
Howard groped his way to the missionary, and wrung his hand. “I beg your pardon. Mr. Willoughby,” he said, simply, “I misunderstood you. I accept your offer. Come.”
“Wait a moment.” Dorothy’s soft voice sounded. “I want to thank you, Mr. Willoughby, and tell you that I never thought hard of you about Captain Forbes. He was a terrible man. Can—can I do anything in—in case you don’t come back?” Her voice trailed sobbingly off.
“Nothing. I haven’t a chick or a child in the world, and—God bless you, my dear.” With a last pressure of her hand he turned away. “Come, Mr. Howard,” he commanded.
In Cimmerian gloom the two men felt their way to the torpedo port. “Better take off all your clothes,” counselled Howard. “The least thing may serve to hold you in the weed. Strap this knife tightly to your arm so you will be sure not to lose it. Carry this smaller one between your teeth. Don’t lose your head; if you get entangled, keep cool and cut yourself free. When you get to the surface look for the lump of weed above us; it will be conspicuous enough. Cut first at one end of the boat, and then at the other, so that we can rise on an even keel. Now, if you are ready, climb in head-first.”
The ten minutes that elapsed after Howard had “fired off” the missionary were the longest that any of the party had ever known. Beneath the water, beneath the weed, in darkness so intense that it positively weighed, each waited in silence the results of the venture on which, in all human probability, depended his or her chance for life. For if Mr. Willoughby, comparatively small, agile, and a good swimmer, could not get through the interlacing weed, the chances were that none of the others could do so.
Bearing Mr. Willoughby’s clothes, Howard had groped his way back to the conning-tower, and to Dorothy’s side, and had found her on her knees. “Oh! Frank! Frank!” she sobbed. “Let us pray for him. Frank! Frank!” Howard sank beside her, and no more fervent petition than his was ever wafted to the throne of grace.
Slowly the minutes ticked themselves away. Then, just as hope seemed gone, the Seashark gave a sudden lurch, and a gasp of relief arose. It required no expert to tell her passengers that something was happening above the water—a something that could have but one cause.
Howard explained it: “Mr. Willoughby has cut one of the cables that are holding us down—there goes another—and another.” A faint light showed through the grass-filled peep-holes of the conning-tower; promise of the glorious burst to come. “We are rising. We are tearing free.”