Old Mr. Pangloss had, at first, been glad to welcome Lockyer to his home. When the chemist’s father died, however, and did not leave as large a fortune as had been anticipated, the old man looked upon the growing friendship between his daughter and the inventor from another viewpoint. He had, in fact, discouraged his visits. That morning was the first time the inventor and the girl he had grown to love had met in many months. Her arrival was in response to a promise made a long time before, that she would be there to christen the Lockyer when it took to the water. Much against her father’s wishes, therefore, they had come. It was Lockyer’s belief that she would redeem that promise that had kept him delaying the launching till the last moment.
The purpose of a small platform erected near the Lockyer’s bow now became apparent. It was for the fair sponsor of the vessel to stand upon while she shattered the bottle against the steel prow, according to time-honored custom. As she took her place upon the little stand, she gave Lockyer a look full of confidence and trust, and a bright light shone in the inventor’s eyes as he followed the others to the deck of the diving craft. There was new confidence in his step, his head was thrown back, and he fairly radiated assurance.
“Better give the word as soon as possible,” whispered Lieutenant Parry to the foreman, who stood beside him. “We don’t want to try Lockyer’s nerves more than necessary.”
Now the ladder was kicked away from the steel side of the craft. It had been used for the last time. In obedience to a nod from Lieutenant Parry, Ned took his place at the deck wheel forward of the conning tower. The entire front of the shed had been removed for the launching, and they could see stretched before them the sparkling waters of the Sound. In the distance was the dim blue outline of the Connecticut shore.
“All ready!” hailed the foreman over the side.
A quiver of excitement ran through every man on that steel deck. In a few minutes now they would know whether the initial trial of the craft was to be a success or a failure.
Below, a terrific clattering of sledges started up. The workmen were swinging their hammers against the wooden props, knocking out the remaining retaining wedges. When the last one was knocked clear, the submarine would begin to shoot down the greased ways.
“Right below!” shouted a workman from beneath. Those on the deck knew that his words meant that only one wedge remained to be knocked loose.
Mr. Lockyer was gripping the rail, his face turned toward the platform upon which stood Miss Pangloss and her father. His face was ghastly pale, though his eyes shone brightly. His nervous grasp on the rail whitened his knuckles as he gripped it.
The girl, a brave smile upon her lips, held the bottle ready poised. The silken ribbons which fluttered from its neck moved slightly in the light breeze sweeping in from the unruffled Sound. In that moment of tension even old Mr. Pangloss looked interested. The naval officers stood without blinking an eyelid or betraying any outward sign of emotion—as their training required.