From a speaking tube close to the helmsman's ear a voice trickled up from the depths of the diving vessel's interior. It was old Sam calling up from the engine room.
"What's happened, sir?"
Tom could hear the words as plainly as one can sometimes hear a voice coming over the phone even when one is at some distance from the receiver.
"We've struck something, Sam. I don't know what yet," shouted back the inventor, in a steady, even tone. "Better stand right by your engines. Are they working all right?"
"Splendidly, sir," came back the response. "Any other orders, sir?"
"No, that's all for the present, Sam."
Tom felt ashamed of himself. With this feeling came a new one of self-possession, taking the place of the deadly, almost nauseating fear he had experienced an instant before. If the inventor and his assistant could be calm, so could he, Tom Dacre, master his terror.
He stepped up to Mr. Ironsides, making his way with some difficulty, for the submarine was still wallowing over on her side. But, in obedience to Mr. Ironsides' previously telegraphed orders, she was backing slowly away from the hidden obstruction she had collided with.
"Any orders, Mr. Ironsides?"
The inventor glanced round. His face was lined and rigid, but he showed no trace of his deep anxiety other than this. For all the excitement he betrayed, he might have had ice water instead of blood in his veins.