Bob halted the submarine with the touch of a push button.
“We’d better submerge, Bob,” called Jordan. “That’s the way we’ve got to get up the river, and it’s our proper course for dodging around the town. Can you see anything of the schooner?”
“There are only a few small native boats in the harbor,” answered Bob. “The schooner isn’t in sight.”
“Beats the deuce what’s become of the boat,” growled the consul. “If she sent a launch up the river, the schooner ought to be somewhere around, waiting for the launch to get back.”
“She may have pulled off down the coast just to keep clear of us. How’s the water in the river?”
“Him planty deep to where we go, boss,” spoke up Tirzal. “Some time him t’irty feet, mos’ly fifty feet. Eberyt’ing go fine if we keep in de channel.”
“We’ll be on the safe side,” went on Bob, “and just swing along with the water over our decks and the top of the conning tower. Ten-foot submergence, Clackett,” he added through a speaking tube connecting with the tank room.
“Aye, aye, sir,” came back the voice of Clackett.
The hiss of escaping air as the water came into the tanks was heard, and Bob secured the hatch and came down the ladder.