Bob had yet to close the hatch, and the negro’s hands were in the way. With his clenched fist he struck the black fingers. His work was somewhat hampered from the fact that his left arm was still not to be depended on, so he had to use his right hand entirely.
With a howl of pain the negro pulled away his hands. Thereupon, quick as a flash, Bob reached upward and closed the hatch. Not a moment too soon was this accomplished, for the other three soldiers had reached the tower and were preparing to assist their comrade.
Bob pushed into place the lever holding the hatch shut.
“Fill the ballast tanks!” he shouted. “Pass the word to Clackett, Dick. Lively, now! Ten-foot submersion! We’ve got to clear the decks of these negroes. If they should break one of the lunettes, we’d be in a serious fix.”
Down below him Bob could hear Dick roaring his order to Clackett. With eyes against one of the narrow windows Bob watched the rebel soldiers.
They were beating on the hatch cover with their fists, and kicking against the sides of the tower. On the bank, their comrades were running along to keep abreast of the boat and shouting suggestions.
The Grampus, steered by Dick with the aid of the periscope, had turned her nose downstream in the direction of the Izaral. The hissing of air escaping from the ballast tanks as the water came in was heard by the four ragamuffins on the outside of the steel shell, and they began to feel alarm. This strange craft was more than their primitive minds could comprehend.
Slowly the submarine began to sink. As the water crept up the rounded deck, the negroes lifted their bare feet out of it gingerly and pushed up higher. One of them leaped on the conning-tower hatch.
Then, suddenly, the Grampus dropped below the water. A mud-colored blur closed Bob’s view through the lunette, and as he slid down the ladder into the periscope room, he heard faint yells from the negroes.
Dick, hanging over the periscope table, twirling the steering wheel, was laughing loudly.