“Twinty pund,” corrected the lad, without a smile. “You’ll need it on bottom.”
We loaded till the boy said “stop,” then took our burden to the skiff, carried it out to the boat, returned for a second load, shipped that, locked the door, and came down to the shore through the still night. We had neither seen nor heard any one during our visit.
As we started out of Brading Harbor, Tom remarked, “I’ll take the wheel, boy, I’ve got the course. Get the armor on Mr. Orrington.”
Never did I experience such a strange toilet. The dress of tan twill, interlined with sheet rubber, and the copper breastplate were clumsy and awkward enough. The shoes, twenty pounds to each foot, were no winged sandals of Mercury, but the huge helmet was worst of all. I seemed to be prisoned in a narrow cell and, despite myself, I could not wholly keep from wondering what would happen, if the air pipe should break, or the rope snap. The big lens, the bull’s-eye that was the window of the front of the helmet, was left open till I went down, and I took in the salt air in huge breaths through the orifice, expanding my chest to its full capacity, while the lad silently plied his wrench on the nuts that clamped the helmet water-tight. At length the suit was adjusted, and the safety line tied securely round my waist. Then the boy spoke.
“Up one, down two. That’s all ye need.” He jerked the rope in my hand once, twice, and then started forward to take the wheel. We had been racing swiftly across, towards the lights of Portsmouth, as I made my diving toilet, but my thoughts, far swifter, had gone thousands of miles more. Suppose I never came up? If I did not, would Dorothy ever know? Had I made a mistake in not speaking before? Unavailing regret tore at me. Yet stronger than any regret or any weakness was my determination to fulfil my mission. Here was the next step. I must see what lay below the waves. As I sat there, in my cumbrous raiment, I tried to analyze my sensations. No danger I had heretofore encountered had ever caused me anything but a pleasing excitement. Why should this have a disquieting effect upon me, when Tom was so eager to go. The answer came like a flash, in Lord Bacon’s words, “He that hath wife and children, hath given hostages to fortune.” I had neither as yet, but my whole heart was set on having them. My feeling was not cowardly fear. Rather, it was instinctive regret at taking the chance of going and leaving Dorothy behind. I breathed easier when I had worked that out, and gradually, as my mind quieted, the uneasiness gave away to a sense of eager expectation. The shore lights were growing brighter, and Tom, leaving his place at the bow, came down the boat towards my seat in the stern.
“We’re almost there, old man,” he remarked jubilantly. “The lad has the bearings. He’ll put us over the exact spot, and then you can go overboard. It’s a chance of a lifetime.”
Just as he spoke, the lad turned. “Bee’s there,” he said, as he stopped the motor and threw out an anchor. The great coil of rope ran swiftly down for a considerable distance, and brought the boat up with a jerk. The boy came back towards us.
“Screw up t’ bull’s-eye now an’ start t’ poomp,” he directed.
“Good luck, old man,” said Tom, wringing my hand, as he started up the air pump.
“Same to you. I go with leaden steps,” I remarked, waving my lead-soled shoe as I spoke.