“They can’t get the tube loaded, Bob,” cried Dick, “before the cachalot will be on us.”
“We’ll have to meet his first charge,” answered Bob calmly; “there can’t be any dodging.”
There came a low thump from forward, followed by a gurgling splash. From that Bob knew that the bow port had been closed and that the water was being blown out of the tube by compressed air. Then a faint rattle told him the breech door was being opened preparatory to loading the torpedo.
By then Bob was able to see the charging whale. He was a tremendous fellow, and he was making straight for the submarine with all the force in his great body. The water flashed away from his shining sides, and a long trail of foam unrolled behind his churning flukes.
“I’ll do the steering from here, Dick!” shouted Bob, laying hold of the patent device which enabled one to steer from the tower.
Bob headed the boat so as to meet its strange antagonist bow on. Whale and submarine came together with a terrific impact. For an instant the whale seemed stunned, sheered off a little, and the sharp prow raked his side.
The next instant the Grampus was beyond the whale. Bob, looking behind, could see the huge cachalot leaping clear out of the water, and falling into it again with a splash like some mountain dropping into the sea.
The whale was terribly wounded, and bleeding, but the wound seemed only to have increased his pugnacious disposition.
“Watch the periscope, Dick!” roared Bob. “Can you see him? He’s out of sight from here.”
“He’s sounded, mate,” answered Dick, his tense voice proving the strain his nerves were under. “I’m hoping he’ll leave us now, and—— There he is again! He’s coming for us like an express train.”