The Dreadnought of the Air

by Percy F. Westerman

Again the mysterious diver halted and, turning alternately to his right and left, contemplated the two points of attack. By this time the sandy bed of the sea had been considerably disturbed, and the water was rapidly becoming mingled with a muddy deposit that greatly curtailed the range of vision.

It was now a complete deadlock. Neither of the unknown's antagonists could bring themselves to start the attack at close quarters, while the stranger would not surrender.

Awaiting his opportunity the Irishman stealthily gained possession of the airtube, and, grasping it in his powerful hands, attempted to curtail the supply of air. The attempt was a failure, for he was quite unable to compress the stout wire coil running around the rubber hose. He fancied he could see a grim smile of contempt upon the features of his foe. Suddenly Callaghan changed his tactics. Still holding on to the airtube he began to retreat towards the "Meteor." The unknown diver had, perforce, to follow, and since his speed was less than that of the men equipped with the Restronguet apparatus, he could not hope to overtake the Irishman. Dacres saw the latter's plan, and he, too, made for the side of the partially-submerged airship.

It seemed as if nothing could prevent the stranger from being ignominiously hauled to the surface alongside the "Meteor's" wire ladder, until he caught sight of one arm and a fluke of an old anchor that was almost buried in the sand. Round the projecting ironwork he took a turn with the flexible pipe, and the united efforts of his two foes were unable to make him budge another step.

The only solution as far as Dacres could suggest was to return to the surface and get hold of a length of rope wire. By this means the unknown diver could be capsized, made a prisoner and be taken to the airship. The only objection was that some time must necessarily elapse before the wire could be obtained, and in the interval the stranger would make good his escape.

While he was pondering over the problem Dacres saw a huge object heading straight towards him with tremendous speed. The next instant his antagonist was thrown forward, his legs working convulsively in spite of the leaden weights on his boots, while his weapons dropped from his outstretched arms. Then came a terrific blast as the air under considerable pressure burst from the man's diving-dress, while all around the water was tinged with blood. An enormous swordfish, its bulk intensified by the magnifying effect of the water, had charged the unfortunate diver from behind and had impaled him on the long, sharp, horny spike that projected from its head.

Shaking the lifeless body like a terrier does a rat the swordfish strove to disengage its formidable weapon. Dacres knew that either he or his comrade would be the next object of attack, since the ferocious swordfish is never satisfied with one victim. Discretion urged him to make a speedy retreat while there was still an opportunity, but his sense of devotion to his companion soon put that idea out of his head.

Holding his electric fork well in front of him, the sub steeled his nerves and approached his latest foe, which was still striving to withdraw its "sword" from its victim's body.

But Dacres was forestalled. Callaghan, being more in the wake of the fiercely-struggling fish, made his way through the blood-stained water and drove his electric weapon deeply into the leather-like skin. Giving one tremendous jerk that sent the Irishman on his back the swordfish became as rigid as if it were a frozen carcass of mutton in a ship's refrigerator.

As quickly as possible Callaghan regained his feet. His Hibernian blood was up. Securing the knife that had fallen from the grasp of the slain diver he plunged the blade deeply—not once but many times—into the carcass of the swordfish.