"The chart says 12,500 feet—a little over two miles."
"It is a deep distance. Regular divers could never make it. They would be crushed to death by the mere pressure of the water."
"I have thought the matter over, Dave, and I think it will be best for both you and your father to go down only a half-mile the first day. Then, if that is successful, you can go a little deeper each day, until the bottom is reached. And you will have to use the diving bell at all times."
"I know that. And if we leave the diving bell at all it will have to be in those new steel-ribbed diving suits we had made in Washington especially for this trip," concluded the young diver.
The Swallow lay at rest on the broad bosom of the mighty Pacific Ocean.
Nothing had been seen of the Raven, and at present not a sign of a strange sail showed itself anywhere.
It was high noon, and Captain Broadbeam had just concluded his calculations to prove that he was at the very spot which was said to be that where the Happy Hour had sunk.
Dave looked thoughtfully over the side, into the greenish waves, lit for a depth of only thirty or forty feet below the surface.
What fortune did that silent body of water hold for his father and himself?
A touch on his elbow aroused him, and turning, he found his parent standing beside him.