Tim struggled to get to his feet. Water swished about his feet and someone knocked him down. Pat was shouting wildly.
“Shut up!” he cried. “Try and get to your stations. We’re moving!”
Men paused, dazed by the words. Gradually the meaning penetrated their fagged brains and through the darkness they hunted for their places.
Pat was right. Without power of its own, the S-18 was moving. Slowly at first, then with an upward rush that tumbled them about like jack-straws. The slim nose burst through the water and rose above the surface.
Commander Ford, who had remained in the control room, crawled up the ladder and opened the main hatch. A breath of fresh, sweet air, swept down into grateful faces. One by one the men crawled out on the deck.
It was the dawn of the second day. They had been saved from death below the surface, saved by an earthquake which had shifted the wreckage of the Southern Queen off the hull of the S-18.
Tim looked toward the Isle of the Singing Trees. The seaplane was riding safely just off the beach. It was less than 48 hours since they had gone below but he had lived a lifetime in those desperate hours of darkness and despair.
For half an hour they relaxed, basking in the sunshine of the early morning. Then they set about making the S-18 ready for the long cruise back to New York.
Tim, remembering the story he had written while they were on the bottom, plunged below. Part of the paper was wet, but Ike Green decided he could read it and he sat down at the radio to transmit it to the New York Journal and the Atkinson News.
“I’m sending a story on the recovery of the treasure,” Tim said to Commander Ford. “How much shall I say the gold totals?”