“Blindfold!” returned Seymour.
“That’s well. If we don’t strike some kind of a trail, my name ain’t Si. K. Haverly. You don’t mind stoppin’ aboard alone, Wilson?”
“Certainly not,” answered the engineer; “but for Heaven’s sake be careful. If you don’t return, and I am left alone, I think I shall go mad in this ghostly hole!”
“I guess it’ll have to be a mighty smart nigger to get the drop on me and Seymour,” Haverly asserted. “Just skip down to your engines, like a good chap, an’ we’ll get a move on.”
Within a few moments the Seal—totally submerged—was moving cautiously up the coast, under the able guidance of the American, while Seymour hastily packed a couple of knapsacks with provisions necessary for their expedition. Not knowing for how long a time they might be absent, Seymour, with the forethought of an old sportsman, stowed away the greatest possible amount of food in the limited space at his command.
Then, filling a couple of cartridge belts, and chopping a handful of cartridges into his pocket in addition, he judged the preparations for the perilous undertaking to be complete.
For four miles the Seal crept along the coast line, then she was once more raised to the surface, and the two friends made ready to disembark.
“Don’t shift the Seal from here,” Silas said as they stepped ashore. “If we are beaten back we shall make straight for the boat.”
“You may depend on me,” Wilson called, and, at that, the two would-be rescuers plunged into the jungle.
For an hour they pressed on, and, realising full well the need for haste, they put forth every effort, while yet making their passage through the fungi as noiseless as possible.