"Don't, Mr. Reade!" urged Conlon with a shiver. "That'll be worse still.
You're likely to blow yourself into the next world!"
"I think not---hope not, anyway," answered Tom steadily. "Have you a pair
of pliers in your tool box that'll cut small wires?"
"Yes," replied Conlon.
"Get them for me."
Reade removed his coat, shoes and socks, then took the pliers.
"Let one of the men jump ashore with the boathook and hold the boat
steady," was Reade's next direction.
This being done, Reade deflected the searchlight for one more look into the
water. Then, the pliers in his right hand, he mounted to the rail of the
boat.
"Be careful, sir---do," begged Conlon. "What I'm afraid of is that the
bombs are contact exploders."
"It's likely," nodded Reade. "I'll be as careful as I can."
Tom did not dive; the distance was too short. Instead, he let himself down
into the water slowly. Then his head vanished beneath the surface of the
water.
"Whew! The nerve of that young fellow!", thought Conlon with shuddering
admiration.
"Ob co'se Massa Reade done got nerve," nodded the negro at the wheel.
"Dat's one reason why, Misto Conlon, Massa Reade is boss."
"There are other reasons why he's boss," grunted the engine tender.
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