Brown had lugged the pneumatic raft down to the shore where he was now pumping it full: I followed with the paddles, pole, and hydroscope. When the raft had been pumped up and was afloat, we carried the reel of gossamer piano-wire aboard, followed it, pushed off, and paddled quietly through the level cobwebs of mist toward the centre of the lake. From the shore I heard a gruesome noise. It originated under one of the row of tents of the heavy artillery. Medusa, snoring, was an awesome sound in that wilderness and solitude of dawn.
I was unscrewing the centre-plug from the raft and screwing into the empty socket the lens of the hydroscope and attaching the battery, while Brown started his sounding; and I was still busy when an exclamation from my companion started me:
"We're breaking some records! Do you know it, Smith?"
"Where is the lead?"
"Three hundred fathoms and still running!"
"Nonsense!"
"Look at it yourself! It goes on unreeling: I've put the drag on. Hurry and adjust the hydroscope!"
I sighted the powerful instrument for two thousand feet, altering it from minute to minute as Brown excitedly announced the amazing depth of the lake. When he called out four thousand feet, I stared at him.
"There's something wrong—" I began.
"There's nothing wrong!" he interrupted. "Four thousand five hundred! Five thousand! Five thousand five hundred—"