The throb of the Diesel engines ceased. The silence was profound, broken only by the top of the wavelets against the outer plating of the hull.
The electric lights gleamed upon the grave faces of the crew. With two exceptions they were new to submarine work. They had excuse to feel jumpy, but the sight of their cool and composed skipper gave them a certain amount of confidence.
A gurgling noise announced that the buoyancy tanks were being flooded. Slowly the disc of the depth indicator began to move. Once it started it never faltered until it stopped at eleven fathoms.
The Alerte was resting on the bed of Falmouth Bay.
"All shipshape and Bristol fashion, my lads!" exclaimed Trevorrick, turning away from the control station and drawing off his leather gauntlets. "No anchor watch to keep. We're as snug as fleas in a rug."
The men trooped for'ard for supper. Trevorrick and Pengelly retired to the diminutive wardroom amidships, where a repast was already spread upon the teak swing-table.
"To-morrow," remarked Trevorrick, in the course of the meal, "To-morrow, Tom Trevorrick ceases to exist as such. Henceforward I am Captain Cain—'every man's hand against mine,' you know."
"Then you're letting the hands know early?"
Trevorrick nodded.
"And what am I, then?" continued Pengelly. "Captain what?"