IN THE GRASP OF CALAMITY.
Once before Tom had faced death in the depths. This was when he had
battled with the octopus in the wreck of a sunken treasure ship in
the tropic seas. But then he had been fighting for his uncle's life,
and his success had been dependent on his own efforts.
Imprisoned in the stricken submarine, however, the experience was far
different, and vastly more alarming. In the first place, none of
them could do anything but await the result of Mr. Ironsides' hasty
efforts to right his craft, and the inaction was as hard to endure as
the actual peril.
From a speaking tube close to the helmsman's ear a voice trickled up
from the depths of the diving vessel's interior. It was old Sam
calling up from the engine room.
"What's happened, sir?"
Tom could hear the words as plainly as one can sometimes hear a voice
coming over the phone even when one is at some distance from the
receiver.
"We've struck something, Sam. I don't know what yet," shouted back
the inventor, in a steady, even tone. "Better stand right by your
engines. Are they working all right?"
"Splendidly, sir," came back the response. "Any other orders, sir?"
"No, that's all for the present, Sam."
Tom felt ashamed of himself. With this feeling came a new one of
self-possession, taking the place of the deadly, almost nauseating
fear he had experienced an instant before. If the inventor and his
assistant could be calm, so could he, Tom Dacre, master his terror.
He stepped up to Mr. Ironsides, making his way with some difficulty,
for the submarine was still wallowing over on her side. But, in
obedience to Mr. Ironsides' previously telegraphed orders, she was
backing slowly away from the hidden obstruction she had collided with.
"Any orders, Mr. Ironsides?"
The inventor glanced round. His face was lined and rigid, but he
showed no trace of his deep anxiety other than this. For all the
excitement he betrayed, he might have had ice water instead of blood
in his veins.
"Ah! It's you, Tom Dacre? Yes, I have some orders. I wish you
would go forward into the torpedo chamber and see if we are taking in
any water. I'm rather afraid that a plate may have been sprung."
"And if there is a leak?" asked the professor, who, like Tom, had
succeeded in mastering his first alarm.
"If there is," was the placid response, "we must stop it; or," he
paused for an instant, "or remain down here."
Even Tom blanched anew at these words. Death in a watery tomb was
staring them in the face. But he hastened off on his errand.
Anything was better than helpless inaction at such a moment.
Fortunately, the lights had not been extinguished in the crash, and
the metal-walled torpedo room was illuminated brilliantly with a
flood of electric light. To his great relief, Tom, after a careful
examination, was able to report that there were no apparent injuries
to the _Huron_, forward. She seemed to be as tight as a bottle,
thanks, doubtless, to her double "skin."
"I hardly thought that she would be seriously damaged," said the
inventor calmly. "See, she is coming up on an even keel, too, now.
I guess we'll start a little investigation right here."
"Ain't we a-gwine up to de top?" whined Rosewater, who was cowering
in a corner.
"Not yet," was the calm response, "I want to find out just what it
was we struck."
"Good heavens! The man must be made of his own metal," Tom heard the
professor gasp under his breath. But, excepting Rosewater, none of
them remonstrated.
While they watched him curiously, Mr. Ironsides shoved the engine
room signal lever over to "Ahead, slow."
The backward motion of the diving craft ceased. She began to creep
forward.
All at once, Mr. Ironsides pressed a button at his elbow. A sharp
click responded, and the water in front of the _Huron_ became
illuminated with a flood of brilliant, blinding white light. Tom
could see fish dart off out of the lane of light like coveys of
partridges. Some, fascinated seemingly by the rays, flocked about
the conning tower, dashing themselves against its thick lenses like
moths round a lamp chimney.
"That searchlight is the most powerful I could devise," said Mr.
Ironsides, in a tone of quiet satisfaction. "I guess it's doing its
work all right."
"I guess so," agreed Tom enthusiastically. The boy had quite
forgotten his alarm in the sensation of watching the wonderful
illumination of the waters.
"Keep a sharp lookout," urged the inventor. "I am anxious to see
what it was that we struck."
Tom found himself wondering over the necessity for this, but he held
his peace, and busied himself in gazing out of the conning tower
windows. For some time nothing appeared in the field of light but
masses of water. The liquid looked greenish and almost solid--like
thick glass--in the powerful rays of the searchlight.
"It must be somewhere hereabout," commented Mr. Ironsides, after
several minutes had gone by without revealing anything.
He began to move the searchlight about, controlling its shiftings by
a worm-gear and wheel.
All at once Tom spied something, a dark, indefinite-looking mass, off
to the right.
"Look! Look there, Mr. Ironsides!" he cried.
"Jove, boy, you have sharp eyes!" commented the inventor, turning his
gaze in the direction Tom had indicated.
"Is that what we struck, sir, do you think?" asked the boy.
"We'll go closer and see what it is. Oh, don't be afraid, professor;
there's no danger this time," he added, for the man of science had
begun to protest against what he termed "sheer recklessness."
Slowly, very slowly, the _Huron_ crawled through the lower waters.
It speedily became evident that the indefinite object that Tom had
seen, looming up vast and shadow-like in the searchlight's path, was
the sunken wreck of some sort of a vessel. As they drew closer, they
could make out the masts and see the big black hull.
"Humph!" commented Mr. Ironsides. "It's lucky the sensograph gave
warning when it did, or we might not be in as good shape as we are
now."
Under the inventor's handling, the _Huron_ was moved slowly round the
sunken craft. She had been lumber laden, evidently, for part of her
cargo could be seen still lashed to her decks.
As they rounded her stern, Tom saw a name in white paint inscribed on
it.
"_Mary J. Jennings_--Rockport."
"Why, I recall reading about the loss of the _Jennings_!" he cried.
"It was last winter, in a bitter storm, that she was lost with all
hands. At least, they supposed she was lost, for she never
reappeared. I suppose her load of lumber had kept her from sinking
altogether, though she was water-logged enough to be submerged."
"I guess that's it," agreed the inventor. "That craft," he went on
solemnly, "is the grave of a crew of brave men."
"And might have proved the cause of our being doomed to a tomb on the
bottom of the lake," struck in Tom. He shook his fist at the sodden
wreck as the searchlight illumined her outlines.
The inventor turned to him with a smile.
"Makes you feel mad, doesn't it, Tom?" he asked.
"Well, not mad, exactly. I hardly know how to describe it," faltered
Tom.
"How would you like to have revenge on her, to put her out of the way
for good?" asked the inventor.
"How do you mean?" asked the lad, rather incredulously.
"I mean that if she should ever come to the surface she is a real
menace to navigation. As it is, she almost caused the loss of the
_Huron_. I should like to remove her forever."
An inkling of his meaning dawned on Tom.
"You mean that you want to torpedo her?" he demanded.
"Yes. It would give me a whole lot of satisfaction. What do you
say?"
"That would certainly be a revenge of a twentieth century character,"
spoke the professor.
"By George!" exclaimed the inventor, with more animation than he had
shown since our party had encountered him, "we'll do it. Here, Jeff,
you take the wheel. Keep her circling round the wreck. Tom Dacre,
I've a job for you in the torpedo room."
"A job for me?" echoed Tom wonderingly.
"Yes. You are appointed assistant annihilator of the submarine
_Huron_."