Two days passed ere the Yankee and Wilson were able to resume their duties, and for long afterwards a great ring of scars about the waist of each testified to the narrowness of their escape from the grip of the giant octopus.
On the third day after this adventure—the explorers could but reckon days by the calendar in this gloomy subterranean world—the engines were once more started, and the Seal soon left the scene of the struggle far behind.
Along the low, sandy shore she sped for many miles, until Seymour, no longer able to restrain his restlessness, announced his intention of going ashore.
“I’m with you,” Garth said, and rushed below to make preparations.
Steering the vessel close inshore, Haverly brought her to. Seymour ran out the gangway, then followed Garth below, returning shortly with a magazine rifle slung over his shoulder, while from his pocket bulged the grim outline of a revolver.
“Who is coming?” he asked.
“I guess I’ll stay and look after the old boat,” returned Silas, and Wilson—still feeling somewhat shaky from his terrible adventure with the great cephalopod—decided to remain with him.
Strapping on a specimen case, the scientist joined Garth and Seymour, and the three, passing over the gangway, stepped ashore.
“Take care,” the engineer called after them.
“Never fear,” was Garth’s cheery reply; and so they departed, light-heartedly, on a trip which was to bring at least two of them face to face with death in its most terrible form, vanishing at length from the sight of their friends amid the towering growths of fungi jungle.