“I’ll do my best. As for Gaines, Speake, and Clackett, they wouldn’t dare lay hands on me. I can take care of the don, I guess!” Bob’s gray eyes flashed dangerously.
“They’ll not let us out of here, old ship,” said Dick. “Gaines and the rest know their business.”
The steel room was as solid as a prison cell. There were small ventilators for admitting fresh air, but these were no larger than loopholes. Apart from the ventilators there were absolutely no other openings in the metal walls except the closed doors.
Bob laid down on the cot again and continued turning the situation over in his mind.
The thing that worried him was the possibility of the cruiser Seminole putting in at Belize with orders for the Grampus—orders which might have something to do with the sale of the boat to the United States government.
Bob, who was in Captain Nemo, junior’s, confidence more than any of the others, understood that such a sale was the object for which the captain was striving—that it was that, and nothing else, which had led him to bring the submarine into Central American waters. And now to have the captain run the risk of losing a sale through the misguided and utterly unwarranted action of Speake, Clackett, and Gaines was a hard thing to bear.
Yet Bob could see no way out of the difficulty. Gaines and his two shipmates were determined to help the don, and the boat was well along toward the Izaral.
For three or four hours Bob lay sleeplessly on his cot, listening to the hum of the motor and rolling back and forth with the rough swaying of the boat.
Then, suddenly, he was brought up with a start. The steady song of the cylinders had given way to an ineffectual popping, and he knew that something had gone wrong. The propeller ceased its revolutions, and the submarine came to a dead stop and rolled helplessly in the swell.
“Something’s busted,” remarked Dick, sitting up.