“Aye! aye!” boomed back from the engine room in response to the hail from the steering compartment.
“Stand by, everybody!” roared Silas in a voice that had weathered many a gale. “You monkeys better grab something,” he said to the Cubans, “or you’ll get something you don’t expect.”
The next instant came the motion with which all on board but the Cubans were now thoroughly familiar. Down shot the White Shark.
Down! Down! Down!
A wail of terror went up from the Cubans. Shouts to the saints and their friends rent the air.
“We are sinking, Jose!” yelled one.
“Well, you didn’t think you was going up in a balloon, did you?” grated out Silas.
“Muerto! I am killed!” cried another in agonized tones.
The officers stood firm amidst all the yells and lamentations, but their eyes blinked a little and they looked anything but comfortable. Nor can they be altogether blamed. Picture yourself, reader, routed out of a comfortable bed to go on a diving expedition in a boat that you had no means of knowing would ever reappear on the surface.
But at length the diving motion ceased and the White Shark came up on an even keel.