She watched the “apparition” in a helmet—which she knew to be Johnny—take up her easel and set it in position. She noted, vaguely, that the picture had landed right side up and was not harmed. Then Johnny turned and held out his hand.
She expected to be taken straight up to the ship’s deck. Instead, he led her a distance of a hundred feet along the bottom. Then they came to an abrupt halt, and Johnny pointed straight down.
She looked—and involuntarily stepped back. They were standing on the very brink of a yawning, watery precipice. Far down as one could see was only blue-black depth. It was an awe-inspiring sight.
As if to add to her amazement, she saw—perhaps a hundred feet down—some large, dark hulk. It was dim and indistinct as a shadow, yet very real, as it moved slowly along the cliff, to disappear in the blue-black of the apparently bottomless ocean.
This had not been part of the planned show, she knew at once from her guide’s actions. He moved his arm, pointing excitedly.
A moment longer they stood there, looking down. Then came the signal to come up. The picture and paints were attached to the easel, and a cord drew them up. All Doris had to do was to give a little spring, and up, up, she rose, to the glorious sunshine of a tropical day.
A quarter of an hour later, she and Johnny were seated on the deck, laughing at one another and scarcely knowing why.
Dave and the professor had gone ashore to study tropical bird life, so after the evening meal, Johnny and Doris sat on deck watching the play of phosphorescent creatures beneath the surface of the sea.
“This,” said Johnny, “is my day off. Tonight I sleep. Tomorrow old Samatan and I are going for a sail in a large dugout, to visit some coral reefs.”
Doris smoothed back her thick, golden hair, fixed her bright blue eyes on him, and said: “Why?”