"Couldn't do better," replied Detroit laconically, "unless it's to have some coffee and a few rusks. I'll be slick about it."
Hamerton returned to his rain-exposed post, put the little craft's head in the desired position, and waited. Five minutes later he made another sounding. This time it was four and a half fathoms.
"I'll carry on," he resolved. "It may be a slight irregularity in the ground, although the general tendency is for it to deepen."
Four fathoms—three and a half.
"Say, ready for your coffee?" asked Detroit, holding a cup in his extended hand through the partially open hatchway.
"Far from it," replied the Sub. "Come on deck and give a hand to put her about. The water's shoaling rapidly."
"How's her head?"
"Nor'-nor'-west. I'll keep her at due south for a bit until we find deeper water."
Slowly the Diomeda came into the wind and paid off on the other tack. As she did so Hamerton noticed that, in spite of the heavy rain, the seas were steeper, and showed a decided tendency to break.
"Guess that's surf," said the American, as the dull rumble of a heavy ground swell was heard above the hiss of the rain. "Dead ahead, too."