“Where are we now?” asked one of the reporters.
“Right under the middle of the river,” was the president’s reply. “Above us are the big ferryboats. The ocean steamers are sailing, and the tug boats are darting to and fro.”
“What if the tunnel should break?” asked the same newspaper man.
“None of us would be left to tell what happened,” was the reply. “The water would rush in and—that would be the end of us.”
Larry shivered, though it was hot in the tube.
“But we didn’t build this tunnel to break,” the president went on. “You are as safe as if you were in your offices.”
“I wish I could believe that,” a young reporter remarked, with something like a shiver.
Here and there the gloom was lighted by an incandescent lamp. The cable, pulling small cars, in which the officers and directors of the company rode, while the rest walked, slid along on the grooved wheels. The way was obstructed by huge pieces of iron, being some extra ones of those that formed the inner lining of the tunnel.
With occasional jokes, which a reporter makes even at a funeral, the party proceeded. Now and than a halt would be made while the president explained some technical point.
Finally the party came to a stop. It was quite dark and the few lights only seemed to make the gloom deeper.