"You're right," assented Palmer, ruefully.
"Beg pardon, sir," exclaimed one of the seamen, "but are we hitched up here for good?"
"It looks like it," replied Palmer, almost brutally.
"Then couldn't I go out by the air-lock—I am willing to risk it—and take a line up with me? We've nearly a hundred fathoms aboard."
"Impossible, man; you would be crushed to death."
"We ought to try something, sir; the oxygen seems to be giving out, and the mice are getting torpid."
"I thought we had two hours' supply?"
"So did I, sir, but something's wrong with the stuff."
"We will have to rely on the oxygen helmets, then. Serve them out; it may prolong our lives a few hours, though I know not to what purpose."
Slowly the minutes passed. Illuminated only by the glimmer of a solitary incandescent lamp the interior of the submarine presented a picture of gloomy despair. The crew began to realise that they were imprisoned in a living tomb.