“Ask him.”
“No, sir; better let him alone. He might be crawlin’ through somewheres; might tangle him up if I moved the line. He’s got to feel his way, sir. It’s black as mud down there. If the men warn’t in the caboose he wouldn’t never find ’em at night.”
A quick, sharp jerk from under the surface now swished through the water, followed by a series of strong, rapid pulls,—seesaw pulls, as if some great fish were struggling with the line.
“He’s got one of ’em, sir,” said the captain, with sudden animation. “Says that’s all. He’s been through two cars an’ felt along every inch o’ the way. If there’s another, he’s got washed out o’ the door.”
As he spoke the air-hose slackened and the life-line began to sag.
Captain Joe turned quickly to Sanford. “Pull in that hose, Mr. Sanford,” hauling in the slack of the life-line himself. “He’s a-comin’ up; he’ll bring him with him.”
These varied movements on the yacht stirred the overhanging crowd into action. They hoped the diver was coming up; they hoped, too, he would bring the dead man. His appearing with his awful burden would be less terrible than not knowing what the man-fish was doing. The crew of the yacht crowded still closer to the rail; this fishing at night for the dead had a fascination they could not resist. Some of them even mounted the ratlines, and others ran aft to see the diver rise from the deep sea.
In a moment more the black water heaved in widening circles, and Caleb’s head and shoulders were thrust up within an oar’s length of the yacht. The light of the lantern fell upon his wet helmet and extended arm.
The hand clutched a man’s boot.
Attached to the boot were a pair of blue overalls and a jacket. The head of the drowned man hung down in the water. The face was hidden.