At daybreak Aynsley pulled across in the yacht’s small dinghy, and his face had an anxious look as he entered the Cetacea’s cabin, where Jimmy was cleaning some of the pump fittings by lamplight.
“How is Mr. Clay?” Jimmy asked.
“He looks very ill. I left him getting up and sculled across as quietly as I could to have a talk with you. Can you do anything to prevent his going down? I don’t think he’s fit for it.”
“I’m afraid not. You see, we’re at variance, in a way, and if we made any objections he’d get suspicious.”
“You couldn’t play some trick with the diving gear? I’m worried about him; the pressure and exertion might be dangerous.”
“We might put our own pump out of action, but we couldn’t meddle with yours, and he might insist on going alone.”
“That wouldn’t do,” said Aynsley. “I wouldn’t hesitate to smash our outfit, but he’d get so savage about it that the excitement would do more harm than the diving.”
“Then you’ll have to reason with him.”
Aynsley smiled.
“I’ve been trying it ever since we dropped anchor, and it hasn’t been a success; you don’t know my father.” He gave Jimmy a steady look. “He means you to be his companion, and although I’ve no claim on you, I want you to promise that you’ll take care of him.”