Dick was interrupted by a chorus of surprised yells from the rest of his companions.
The torpedo, kicking one end high in the air, had taken a "header" toward the bottom of the bay.
"Dot means goot-by," murmured the amazed Carl. "Der vale's run off mit it. Bedder dot vale look a leedle oudt und not knock his tail too hardt against der dorpeto. Oof he do dot, den, py shinks, he make some mincemeat out oof himseluf."
"Great guns!" exclaimed Gaines. "What do you suppose did that, Dick?"
"More mysterious things have happened to us since we left Magellan Strait," ruminated Dick, "than ever came our way before. Suppose we haul in on the tow line and have a look at the end of it."
The line was pulled aboard. There were some forty feet of it, and the end was sliced off clean.
"A knife did that!" declared Clackett.
"Der vale dit id mit his teet'," asserted Carl, who always hung to one of his own theories like a dog to a bone.
"Bosh, Clackett!" scoffed Gaines. "How could a knife have done that? Who was down there to cut the rope?"
"It don't make any difference what separated the rope," put in Speake, "the thing was done, and something or other is running away with Motor Matt's torpedo. Matt must have wanted that Whitehead or he wouldn't have gone to the trouble to tow it in. Are we going to let it get away from us?"