He could not lean forward far enough to bring effective pressure on the iron lever that had been lowered to him, or he might have pried his own foot loose, or have opened the valve wide enough to enable him to withdraw it.
"And he's been standing in that painful position for hours," thought Joe, "trying to help himself and not being able to. No wonder he wanted more air. He must be pretty nearly exhausted with the water pressure and the horror of it all."
Joe himself was suffering from the weight of water and from the labor of holding his breath. This labor was increased at the depth in which he was. It was deeper than he had ever gone down before—five times as deep as his glass tank in the circus.
Joe took the iron bar in both hands and worked himself as near to the outlet pipe as he dared go.
One end of the bar was pointed, and Joe inserted this between the lead sole of the diver's boot and pried cautiously. He was working as fast as he could, and he realized that more than a minute of his precious four—or, at best, four and a half—had passed. And he had only begun. Could he stand it? Could he hold his breath long enough to make the rescue?
"I will do it! I will!" Joe told himself down there under the water.
Several times he put all the weight he could bring to bear on the iron bar, and Joe was well muscled. But the foot was still held fast. Joe was afraid of using too much force for fear of making a hole in the boot, or of causing the diving suit to leak. But the foot would not stir.
Joe wished he had a longer bar, so he could get more leverage, but there was no time to signal for one. Nor could Tom Rand help him by pressing on the end. The diver could not lean forward far enough.
"I've got to do it all by myself," thought Joe grimly.
Again and again he pried with all the force he dared use. Something tapped him on the shoulder. He looked around to see the diver beckoning to him. Joe leaned back and saw, by the motions made by Rand's fingers, that the diver was trying to tell him to pry on the valve itself.