“About fifteen feet, I guess,” was the rejoinder.
“Then I’ll sink to twenty-five, sir, and come up as near astern as I can.”
Down they dropped, till the gauge showed that they were twenty-four feet under the surface. Ned brought the craft on an even keel, and then began the ascent. As they rose to the surface, every one in the conning-tower gave a cry of surprise. So accurately had the Dreadnought Boy gauged the distance that the Lockyer came to the top not more than ten feet astern of the gunboat. They could see her big counter looming up blackly against the starry sky.
Forward, the searchlight was sweeping the waters in every direction. Evidently, that sudden whistle from dead ahead had got on the nerves of those in charge of her navigation.
“My, but they must be a sadly puzzled crew on board the Brooklyn,” chuckled Lieutenant Parry.
The others were scarcely less amused at the way in which the larger vessel was helplessly sweeping the waters in search of the mysterious cause of the alarm.
“I saw a bear once, back in the Catskills, that had been stung by a bee,” whispered Herc; “the way that old gunboat is carrying on reminds me of it.”
“Will there be any one astern, sir?” asked Ned of Lieutenant Parry, the next minute.
“Should be a marine sentry by the illuminating buoy, but I guess they’re all forward, trying to find out if they’ve run down anything,” whispered back the lieutenant; “but we’ve got to act quickly if we are to act at all.”
“Very well, then, sir,” rejoined the young boatswain’s mate, throwing back the conning-tower top without making the slightest noise. “Mr. Lockyer, will you hand me up that line, sir, and one of the weights?”