"What are you going to do about it?"
"Is there no way to rescue the crew?"
"Don't let those boys die, without lifting a finger to save them."
"Get busy, man—in heaven's name, get busy!"
Such were the comments, questions and advice that poured in on the builder. David Pollard, his sensitive nature suffering extremely, shrank back out of the crowd.
"Gentlemen—and ladies, too—don't you understand that nothing really can be done—at least not in a rush?" cried Jacob Farnum, the cold sweat standing out on his face. "There isn't a diver in or near Dunhaven, and that unfortunate boat is down in seventy feet of water. I'm going to rush a wire to the nearest place where I know a diver to be, but I—I am certain that it will be hours before we can hope to have one here. That is all—all that can possibly be done."
"Oh, this is dreadful!" sobbed one of the women writers. "Those brave, splendid boys—such a fearful fate!"
"Must they be asphyxiated down there, below?" cried another woman.
"Don't," choked Jacob Farnum. "I must rush for the telegraph station and get off a message for a diver—also for a wrecking company to send tugs and floats here for raising the 'Pollard.' Yet it will take a wretchedly long time."
"And the boys? Rescue will come too late to save them?" asked a newspaper man, with a decided choke in his voice.