That the hatch would be open he had not the slightest doubt. No hatch, however stout, could hope to withstand a force that had created a small tidal wave so many feet above it. The way would be open—for him to explore.
The descent seemed torturingly slow to his impatience. Once more bright-colored fish swam and swirled about him, bewildered, and yet attracted by the light from his lamps. Once more he felt as though this marvelous experience were a dream from which he must presently awake to find himself once more in the humdrum world of commonplaces.
And then at last, the touch of sand to his feet. The rope slackened. He was at the bottom.
This time they had judged the location better. He recognized the now familiar formation of the coral rock that lay near the wreck and with ever-increasing excitement he made for the ship.
His progress was a rather gruesome affair, hampered as it was by the bodies of dead fish, floating bellies up in a grotesquely helpless attitude.
The sharks and larger fish had suffered also and Phil was conscious of a creepy sensation at the roots of his hair as a dead shark bumped against his legs.
“I don’t like ’em alive,” he muttered, evidently referring to the sharks. “But I don’t like ’em even when they’re dead.”
Then he was stopped by an unusually unpleasant thought. What—beside possible treasure would he be likely to find within the shattered hulk of the old Sea Rover. The thought was enough to give anyone pause.
“If I hate dead fish,” Phil communed with himself, “how much more will I hate dead—” he paused at the word and then went resolutely on again.
According to the old pirate the good ship had gone down with all hands on board and the pirate ships were always well manned. “Bricks and stones and dead men’s bones—” Phil tried to laugh but he didn’t get very far with it.