"I'll hang on and get my breath," Tom informed the men in the boat, as he
rested one hand on the rail. "The other two bombs are about three feet
lower, and it's going to be hard to work at the lower depth."
"Be careful, won't you, sir?" urged Conlon, in a somewhat awed voice. "Mr.
Reade, we can't afford to lose you until this job is completed. Men with
all the nerve you show are scarce in the world."
"I know where there are forty thousand men with at least as much nerve,
many of them having several times as much as I," laughed Tom.
"Where on earth are they?" demanded the Irishman.
"In the United States Navy. If there were a battleship here the jackies
would be fighting for the honor of going down after these bombs."
Then Reade dropped out of sight, once more. Nor was it long before he
had the third and the fourth bombs aboard the boat. Then he climbed in
himself, dripping like a shaggy Newfoundland dog.
"Put in at the dock now," the young chief ordered, and the boat started on
its way.
"Some one signaling from the wall lower down," Tom soon informed the negro
pilot. "Put in where you see the signaling."
"It is I, Corbett," called the foreman of that name.
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