He stepped within and laid his hand on the machine, saying:
“Anna, you keep watch, and, if any boat heaves in sight, let us know. Does the Turtle snap, David?” he questioned, putting forth his hand and laying it cautiously upon the animal.
“Never, until the word is given,” replied the son, and then ten strong hands applied the strength within them to lift the curious piece of mechanism and carry it without.
The seine-house was close to the river-bank, and in a half-hour’s time the American Turtle was in its native element.
Madam Anna Bushnell kept strict watch over the shores and the river, but not a sail slid into sight, not an oar troubled the waters of the tide, as it tossed back the tumble of the down-flowing river.
It was a hard duty for the mother to perform; for, at a glance toward the bank, she saw David step into the machine, and the brass cover close down over his head. She felt suffocating fears for him, as, at last, the thing began to move into the stream. She saw it go out, she saw it slowly sinking, going down out of sight, until even the brass head was submerged.
Then she forsook her post, and hastened to the bank to keep watch with the rest.
One, two, three minutes went by. The men looked at the surface of the waters, at each other, grew thoughtful, pale; the mother gasped and dropped on the salt grass, fainting; the brother gave to Lady Fenwick a running push, bounded on board, and clutched the oars to row swiftly to the spot where David went down.
Mr. Bushnell filled his hat with water, and sprinkled the pale face in the sedge.