“You’re right. The currents you speak of can cause trouble even for a submarine the size of the S-18, but I guess that’s the only solution. We’ll make our first dive in the morning.”
Turning to Tim, he added: “You’d better get your seaplane off the deck tonight. Make it fast to the beach. I don’t want to lose any time when daylight comes.”
Members of the crew aided Tim in getting the Sea King off the deck and into the water. It was night before the task was completed, and he taxied the trim little craft up to the beach under the guiding rays of a searchlight on the conning tower. While Tim was making the plane fast for the night, Pat rowed in from the S-18 to take him back.
The Isle of the Singing Trees was living up to its name that night. The tangled mat of underbrush came down close to the water’s edge and from it came a mournful melody. Now and then a vagrant breeze, skipping through the tree tops, added a higher note and Tim shivered at the loneliness and the desolation. The lights of the S-18, a bare 200 yards from the shore, looked far away. He was glad when Pat’s boat grated on the rocky beach.
Pat also felt the weird atmosphere of the island.
“It isn’t healthy here,” he said. “Let’s get back to the S-18.”
Tim jumped into the boat and they pulled lustily toward the safety and comfort of the submarine.
Men slept restlessly on the S-18 that night. Tomorrow they were going to the bottom of the bay. If fortune favored them, they would come back to the surface with a wealth of gold.
Tim was as restless as any of them, turning and tumbling around in his narrow bunk. An hour before dawn he slipped out of his blankets, dressed, and went up on deck. Commander Ford was in the conning tower and Tim wondered whether he had slept any during the night.
“I’m a little anxious about the Sea King,” said the flying reporter. “I’d like to turn the searchlight on the beach.”