Part 11 (1/2)

”Oh, gos.h.!.+ Oh, I _do_ wish they'd hurry!” exclaimed Frank. ”Oh, they're terribly slow! And how _will_ they get to him? How do we know where he is?”

Slowly the minutes dragged by. Each tick of the cheap clock on the table seemed to spell Tom's fate and still no sound came from beneath the river. Once, Henry thought he caught a word, an exclamation half suppressed, but he could not be sure. He had called Tom, but no reply had come. Were the two dead? Had some awful calamity overtaken them at the bottom of the river? Was this to be the tragic end of all their experiments? Was Tom's death the reward for their success?

Then, from far up the street, came the clamor of a bell, and the screech of a motor horn sounded from nearer at hand.

At the same instant Henry uttered a glad, joyous cry. ”They're all right!” he shouted. ”I just heard Rawlins tell Tom to go ahead!”

With a quick motion, he threw in the switch and at that moment Frank's ringing shout of joy filled the room.

But before Henry could call to Tom, before he could utter a sound, hurrying, tramping footsteps echoed from the dock, the door burst inwards with a bang and into the room leaped Mr. Pauling. Beside him was a heavy-jawed man with drawn pistol and over his shoulder through the open doorway the boys saw the visored caps and blue coats of police.

”They're safe!” yelled Frank, trying to make his voice heard above the excited, shouted interrogations of Mr. Pauling. ”We just heard them.”

Mr. Pauling leaped towards the open trapdoor, the police crowding at his heels. Henry dropped his instruments and joined them and all crowded forward.

A shadow seemed to hover in the dull water and a slender affair of wire broke the surface.

”They're here!” screamed Frank.

”Thank G.o.d!” echoed Mr. Pauling fervently.

Hardly had the words of thankfulness left his lips when he uttered a startled cry, and, throwing himself face downward at the edge of the trapdoor, plunged his arms into the swirling water. The dim shadowy form of the diver whose helmet had just appeared, had swayed to one side; his hands, clutching the upper rungs of the ladder, had loosened their grasp, his arms had wavered and had taken a feeble stroke as if trying to swim and from the receiver on the table had issued a despairing cry, a choking, gurgling groan, ending in a gasp.

Whether the swaying, half-floating form was Tom or Rawlins, Mr. Pauling could not know, for in the suits ident.i.ty was lost, but trained as he was through long years in a service where to act instinctively meant life or death, he instantly dropped to the floor and clutched at the dim figure beneath. Had he delayed for the fraction of a second he would have been too late, but, as it was, his fingers closed on one of the diver's wrists. The next instant he had grasped the other arm and a moment later, with Henderson's aid, he had dragged the dripping, limp form onto the dock and the two men were cutting the suit and helmet from the unconscious form. But they already knew it was Tom. The boy's limbs projecting from the short tunic had proved this and Mr. Pauling's face was white and strained as they dragged the khaki-colored garment and the helmet from his son.

”Thank Heaven Rawlins fixed those suits so he could not breathe flames!”

exclaimed Mr. Henderson, as the helmet was drawn from Tom's head. ”He's breathing, Pauling!”

As he spoke, there was a disturbance at the door and the police stood aside as an ambulance surgeon pushed his way hurriedly into the room. He bent over Tom in silence for an instant and then he glanced up and Mr.

Pauling read good news in his eyes.

”Don't worry!” he exclaimed. ”He's not hurt. Hasn't breathed any water.

Just in a faint, I think. He'll be around in a moment. h.e.l.lo! Here's another!”

While he had been speaking, another helmeted form had appeared, dragging a limp figure, and, holding to the latter's legs still another diver was climbing up the ladder.

”What the d.i.c.kens!” exclaimed Mr. Henderson glancing up. ”Who the devil are these? Two divers go down and four come up!”

Dropping the apparently lifeless diver on the floor Rawlins dragged off his helmet, glanced about in a puzzled way and then, without waiting to ask questions exclaimed, ”Here, Doctor! Quick! Get at this chap!”

At his words, the doctor and his a.s.sistant sprang to the side of the form on the floor and rapidly stripped off his helmet and, as the man's face was exposed, even the hardened surgeons could not restrain a gasp of horror and amazement. The face was horrible to look upon. It was scorched, seared, blackened, the eyebrows burned off, the eyelids hanging in shreds, the sightless eyes staring white and opaque like those of a boiled fish. Rawlins gave a single glance at him.

”Oh, Lord!” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. ”He's done for! He's had flames from the chemicals in his helmet! Poor devil, he _must_ have suffered!”

Then, turning to Mr. Henderson, he exclaimed.

”Better get the suit off this other chap. Don't know who he is, but he's something rotten! Guess it's a good thing the police are here.”