“Well, we’re going down, aren’t we?”
“Yes, but how about coming up? Hullo, Mr. Dancer’s put her on an even keel. How deep are we?”
Jack glanced at the depth indicator on the metal wall above him.
“Seventy fathoms.”
“Gracious, four hundred and twenty feet!”
“That’s right, but the White Shark is constructed to bear at least ten times the amount of pressure we are withstanding.”
“But if we ever went too deep?”
“We’d be crushed flat as a pancake.”
“Humph!” was Tom’s sole remark.
In the face of what Jack had just said, he could think of nothing more suitable to reply than this unsatisfactory exclamation!