[CHAPTER I.]
THE CACHALOT.
"Look at the chart, Dick. Unless I'm off in my reckoning, those blue things in the distance, that look like clouds, are the mountains of Trinidad."
"Right-o, matey! The Gulf of Paria is to the south, and right ahead of us is the Boca Drago, or Dragon's Mouth, the entrance to the Gulf. What's our first port-of-call?"
"Georgetown. That's where we're to pick up the midshipman."
"But we're two days ahead of time, and he won't be expecting us. Why not put in at Port-of-Spain for a little social call? I was there once, on the old Billy Ruffin, and it's a fine place for getting on your go-ashores and seeing the sights."
"This is a business trip, old chap, and not a sightseeing excursion. Our schedule has been made out for us, and we've got to follow it through. It's a big responsibility we're under, and if anything should happen to the Grampus, there'd——"
At this moment a tremendous shock interrupted Motor Matt. The big steel hulk of the submarine stopped dead, reeled for an instant like a drunken man, and then rebounded sternward against the push of the propeller. Accompanying the weird manœuvre was a fierce thrashing of the waves outside.
Sunk level with the surface of the sea, conning tower awash, the Grampus had been proceeding at a good clip on her southward journey. Motor Matt and Dick Ferral were in the periscope room, Matt with his attention divided between the periscope table, the steering wheel, and the small compass, and Dick on his knees beside a locker on which were a number of admiralty charts.