The current was bearing the submarine into the cove midway between the headlands—the line of drift being straight toward the farthest point inland.
Dick had a hand lead, and forward at the bow he heaved it constantly.
“Mark three!” he cried.
“Eighteen feet,” said Glennie. “How much do you draw, Mr. Steele?”
“We ought to have ten feet,” answered Bob. “Sharp with it, Dick,” he added anxiously. “We must get as close inshore as we can.”
“Quarter less three!” called Dick.
“Sixteen and a half,” muttered Glennie; “shoaling rapidly. You’d better get that mud hook down, Mr. Steele.”
“Two and a half!” announced Dick, then: “Two and a quarter!” and finally: “Mark twain!”
Bob was not as close to the shore as he wanted to be, but twelve feet was as little water as he dared keep under the Grampus.
“Let go the anchor!” he yelled to Speake.