“Better submerge her,” Garth said; “we shall be less likely to collide with any of the bergs beneath the surface. This smother is worse than a London fog.”
He touched a button on the switchboard beside the wheel as he spoke, and instantly the throb of the pumps sounded through the vessel, and she began to sink.
Soon, with her searchlight gleaming brightly before her, she was gliding swiftly along beneath the surface.
The water was filled with life: hundreds of strange fish flashed past the turret, their gleaming eyes reflecting the electric rays in a myriad rainbow hues.
Once or twice, through the grey-green water, came the ghostly shimmer of ice, as some berg trailed into view, to be left rapidly behind.
So for an hour the Seal moved onward; then the searchlight gleamed on a glistening white wall some distance ahead.
The inventor grasped the telephone, which communicated with the engine-room.
“Stop your engines,” he called, “and sink her.”
“Right you are,” came the answer.
Gliding gently forward by her own momentum, as the propellers ceased to revolve, the Seal nosed almost up to the edge of the barrier; then she sank slowly, her crew keeping a sharp look-out for an opening in the grim wall.