It was the voice of our leader. It came from above, and had a ventriloquial sound about it. I felt inclined to reply in a shrill falsetto, "What a funny man you are Mr. Cole!" but would not. First, it was undignified; secondly, I hadn't the breath to do it.
"Wearily, drowsily," like Miss May Yohe, but (considering my costume) with a difference, I came to the surface. I felt that I had been for the last ten hours in the hottest room of a local Chinese Turkish Bath. I was so limp that had I been told that the fairest of the fair and the richest of the rich combined was on the eve of being introduced to me, I should not have made any effort to get away. Yes, in spite of being conscious that I had rubbed my nose with a smutty glove, and consequently had something in common with the sweep.
"We are going to see the engines," said my friend.
"Only so many hundred feet below the level of the ocean," added our conductor. (It will be observed that I carefully avoid figures for the reasons I have already given.)
"Thanks, no," I gasped out; "I don't think I will go. I suppose they are exactly like other engines?"
"Not in the least."
"Ah, then that decides me, I will stay here," and I did.
I am glad to say that the engines appeared to be particularly interesting, and kept my friend and his escort busily engaged for about half an hour. At length my companions returned. I was partially recovered. I was no longer as limp as a bit of string; I was by this time almost as strong as a piece of address cardboard.
"You should have seen the engines," said my friend in a tone of reproach, "they were excellent."
I replied that I would take his word for it. Then we went to see the guns themselves. Well, I frankly confess I was disappointed. They were the usual sort of guns. Big tubes and all that kind of thing. Rather silly than otherwise.