"It was a wheel of some kind."
Ross looked at Foster. He was now on the conning-tower ladder, half-way up, looking at his opened watch, with a lurid, malevolent twist to his features.
"Say your prayers!" yelled Foster, insanely. "You two are going to die, I say. Die, both of you."
He sprang up the ladder, and Ross bounded aft, somewhat bewildered by the sudden turn of events. He was temporarily at his wits' end. But when Foster floundered down to the deck in a deluge of water from above, and the conning-tower hatch closed with a ringing clang, he understood. One look at the depth indicator was enough. The boat was sinking. He sprang to the sea-cock valve. It was wide open.
"Blast your wretched, black heart and soul," he growled, as he hove the wheel around. "Did you open this valve? Hey, answer me. You did, didn't you? And thought to escape yourself—you coward!"
"Oh, God!" cried Foster, running about distractedly. "We're sinking, and I can't get out."
Ross tightened the valve, and sprang toward him, the murder impulse strong in his soul. In imagination, he felt his fingers on the throat of the other, and every strong muscle of his arms closing more tightly his grip. Then their plight dominated his thoughts; he merely struck out silently, and knocked the photographer down.
"Get up," he commanded, as the prostrate man rolled heavily over on his hands and knees. "Get up, I may need you."
Foster arose, and seated himself on a torpedo amidships, where he sank his head in his hands. With a glance at him, and a reassuring look at the girl, who still remained forward, Ross went aft to connect up the pump. But as he went, he noticed that the deck inclined more and more with each passing moment.
He found the depressed engine room full of water, and the motor flooded. It was useless to start it; it would short-circuit at the first contact; and he halted, wondering at the boat's being down by the stern so much, until a snapping sound from forward apprised him of the reason.