led out the handspike, slammed the breech-door to, and waited.
The protest from within had never ceased; but at last Ross got from the
information, interlarded with pleadings for life, that his hands and
feet were free.
"All right. Take a good breath, and I'll flood you," called Ross. "When
you're outside, swim up." The voice from within ceased.
Ross threw over the lever that admitted water to the tube, opened the
forward door, and applied the compressed air. There was a slight jump to
the boat's nose, but with the inrush of water as Foster went out, it
sank.
However, when Ross closed the forward door, and had expelled this water,
it rose again, and he anxiously inspected the depth indicator.
At first, he hardly dared believe it, but in a few moments he was sure.
The indicator was moving, hardly faster than the minute hand of a clock.
The boat, released of the last few pounds necessary, was seeking the
surface.
"Irene," he shouted, joyously, "we're rising. We'll be afloat before
long, and they'll rescue us. Even though we can't pump, they'll see our
periscope, and tow us somewhere where they can lift the hatch out of
water. It's all over, girl--all over but the shouting. Stand up, and
look at the indicator. Only fifty-five feet now."
She stood beside him, supported by his arm, and together they watched
the slowly moving indicator. Then Ross casually glanced at the
deadlight, and violently forced the girl to her seat.
"Sit still," he commanded, almost harshly. "Sit still, and rest."
For, looking in through the deadlight, was the white face of Foster,
washed clean of blood, but filled with the terror and agony of the
dying. His hands clutched weakly at the glass, his eyes closed, his
mouth opened, and he drifted out of sight.
Transcriber's Note:
Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Dialect
spellings have been retained.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Wreck of the Titan, by Morgan Robertson
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