Fernald’s face fell.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Darrin. We’ll do our best to reach the ship in time!”
“Yes, we’ll do our level best and go our fastest, just as we would hurry to aid any other stricken ship,” Darrin rejoined, steadily, though his hands gripped the rail so tightly that they showed white at the knuckles.
Weedon had already wirelessed to the “Griswold” that help was coming swiftly. Dalzell’s craft, too, had picked up the radio messages telling of the “Griswold’s” desperate plight. Dan was thirty-two miles away from the ship that bore Belle Darrin.
Then from the “Griswold” came this message:
“Listing so that cannot use bow or stern guns. Submarine risen and is shelling us!”
“The monsters!” groaned Dave, as Fernald, in an unsteady voice, read the radio message to him. “Ask how long the ‘Griswold’ can keep afloat if not hit further.”
This message was sent, bringing back the alarming word:
“Cannot say, but submarine moving closer. Evidently determined to make swift job of us.”
“And of course the German hears these messages!” groaned Dave. “He may even have the key to our code with commercial ships. He will now do his best and quickest to send the liner to the bottom!”