At first, he hardly dared believe it, but in a few moments he was sure. The indicator was moving, hardly faster than the minute hand of a clock. The boat, released of the last few pounds necessary, was seeking the surface.
"Irene," he shouted, joyously, "we're rising. We'll be afloat before long, and they'll rescue us. Even though we can't pump, they'll see our periscope, and tow us somewhere where they can lift the hatch out of water. It's all over, girl—all over but the shouting. Stand up, and look at the indicator. Only fifty-five feet now."
She stood beside him, supported by his arm, and together they watched the slowly moving indicator. Then Ross casually glanced at the deadlight, and violently forced the girl to her seat.
"Sit still," he commanded, almost harshly. "Sit still, and rest."
For, looking in through the deadlight, was the white face of Foster, washed clean of blood, but filled with the terror and agony of the dying. His hands clutched weakly at the glass, his eyes closed, his mouth opened, and he drifted out of sight.
Transcriber's Note:
Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Dialect spellings have been retained.