Dutch the Diver; Or, A Man's Mistake

by George Manville Fenn

There was a sudden tightening of the life-line, but Dutch met it with the signal, “All right,” just before the shark once more approached, turned over to seize him, and again received the full length of the blade, while as the monster darted forward and dragged itself free it was at the expense of so fearful a gash that a cloud of blood darkened the water, the shark struggled feebly for a few minutes, and then floated, belly up, to the surface.

Dutch gave his knife a wave or two through the water to remove the blood, replaced it in his belt, and stood gazing up at the ruddy cloud above his head for a few moments, gave a signal or two with the rope such as would show them on deck that he was unhurt, and, stooping down, once more took his spade to try the sand.

It was with a strange feeling of elation that he resumed his task, knowing now, as he did, that by the exercise of ordinary courage a man might readily defend himself from any of these monsters. In fact, so far from feeling alarm now, he was ready to encounter another whenever it might appear; but now the only one in sight was the creature floating far above his head, and more distinctly seen each moment, for the ruddy cloud was becoming rapidly diffused, and the outline of the schooner’s hull and the ladder, which had seemed misty and dull, were now well defined and plain to see.

Dutch now began to feel that he must soon ascend once more, but not wishing to do so without making some discovery, he thrust down the spade here and there, in all directions, but encountered nothing. It was evident that if the treasure existed, it must be far below the sand that had gone on accumulating for centuries.

There was one place, though, that he had not tried, and that was the depression scooped out by the dynamite, a spot which he had reserved to the last. Wading here, then, a task which necessitated his passing right under the schooner and farther from the ladder than he had yet been, he began to examine the surface, and detecting nothing, he thrust down his spade, working it about so as to make it penetrate farther and farther, but still there was no resistance, and, faint and weary, he was about to give up when he thought he would try once more.

This he did, thrusting in the spade and forcing it down till his hand was nearly on a level with the sand, and then—Yes! No! Yes! there was a slight obstruction.

He forced it down again, his heart beating painfully the while, for here was the test.

It might be only a copper bolt in the rotten old wood, or a stone; he might have reached the rock below the sand, but a second thought told him that the keel must be eight or ten feet lower, and that the touch was not that of stone or rock. Neither could it be wood. It was either a metal bolt or that of which he was in search.

Dutch forgot now all about the necessity for ascending; his sole thought was the sunken treasure, and, working as vigorously as he could in his cumbersome garments, he shovelled out the sand, though it was a slow and laborious task, as it kept running back into the hole he made.

Still he dug down more and more till he had made a fair-sized excavation, when, once more thrusting in the spade, he found it checked against something, and his heart sank as he fancied that he might have struck upon a bed of old shells. Still he persevered, not that he expected to lift that which he touched, but in the hope that he might reach it more easily, and satisfy himself that he was touching metal.