To his great relief, above the roaring in his ears he heard sounds of running feet on the wharf, and excited voices shouting something he could not understand. There was a splash beside him. Instinctively he threw out his hands and grasped a rope.
"All right?" cried a voice from the wharf.
"Yes," he answered.
Then those on the wharf began pulling him in and soon had him, dripping and spent, on the planks.
"Where's Holcomb?"
Matt made out McMillan's face bending over him. The question caused the young motorist suddenly to remember that there was something yet to be done for Holcomb.
"Get out a boat," said Matt, "and lay to about a fathom off the end of the pier. Holcomb is coming up—and he can't swim."
"Coming up?" repeated McMillan, blankly.
"Yes; they're going to shoot him out of the torpedo tube, just as they did me."
"Great guns! Can they do that? It ain't possible that——"