“Something like that. Depends upon what materials we can get to start with.”
The lieutenant was pounding his companion upon the back and shouting his joy at this faintest echo of encouragement.
“We’ll plant it alongside the gun—No, we’ll get into their working underground. We’ll blow their equipment into scrap-iron, and perhaps we can even damage the gun itself!” He was almost beside himself with excitement at thought of a weapon being placed in his straining helpless hands.
It was the earth-shaking thunder of the big gun that hastened their final preparations and made McGuire tremble with suppressed excitement where he helped Sykes to draw off a syrupy liquid into heavy crystal flasks.
There were many of these, and the two men would allow no others to touch them, but stored them themselves and nested each one in a soft bed within the submarine. Then one last repetition of their half-formed plans to Djorn and his followers and a rush toward the wharf where the submarine was waiting.
Althora was waiting, too, and McGuire wasted minutes in a petition that he knew was futile.
“Wait here, Althora,” he begged. “I will come back; this is no venture for you to undertake. I can take my chances with them, but you—! It is no place for you,” he concluded lamely.
“There is no other place for me,” she said; “only where you are.” And she led the way while the others followed into the lighted control room of the big under-water craft.
McGuire’s eyes were misty with a blurring of tears that were partly from excitement, but more from a feeling of helpless remonstrance that was mingled with pure pride. And his lips were set in a straight line.