“Lonny Bowles,” continued Sanford, “take three or four of the men and go along the breakwater and see if Caleb is right.”
The men scrambled over the rocks, Lonny plunging into the water beside Caleb, so as to get closer to the rod.
“Thirteen feet six inches!” came back the voices of Lonny and the others, speaking successively.
“Now, Captain Joe, look through this eyepiece and see if you find the red quartered target in the centre of the spider-web lines. You, too, skipper.”
The men put their eyes to the glass, each announcing that he saw the red of the disk.
“Now, Caleb, make your way across to the northwest derrick, and hold the rod on the band there.”
The old diver waded across the concrete, and held the rod and target over his head. The men followed him around the breakwater,—all except Bowles, who, being as wet as he could be, plunged in waist-deep.
Sanford turned the transit without disturbing the tripod, and adjusted it until the lens covered the target.
“Raise it a little, Caleb!” shouted Sanford,—“so! What is she now?”
“Thirteen feet six inches and—a—half!”