Any one of them, except perhaps Jupe, would have willingly faced death on land had it been inevitable. But penned in a metal cylinder under the depths of the ocean, things were very different.
However, forward in the steering compartment was the guiding spirit of the occasion. Not for an instant did Daniel Dancer, dreamer and inventor, swerve from his post or his duty. With quick, sure fingers he manipulated the emergency machinery following the crash. For aught he knew, at any instant through a wound in the side of the almost human craft he had created the water might come pouring in.
But although his face was deathly pale he controlled the machinery with a heavy hand. When the crash came his heart had bounded to his mouth. Like Mr. Chadwick he had murmured to himself:
“It is the end!”
With indomitable pluck he stuck to his post, but his pale lips moved as if in prayer.
One! two! three minutes passed, and still came no sign that the blow dealt the White Shark had been a mortal one. Her engines buzzed steadily on. Glancing almost fearfully at the array of indicators in front of him, the inventor manipulated the devices which he knew would show the slightest injury to the craft they controlled.
But one after another they responded. The White Shark was in perfect control.
“Can it be possible, after that fearful blow?” breathed Daniel Dancer, half afraid to believe the good fortune which investigation showed him must be his.
He set the craft on an even keel and hailed the others.
Mr. Chadwick’s voice came back: