“She’s sinking!” cried Blake.  “Our cameras—­our films, Joe!”

“Yes, we must save them!” his chum shouted.

“I’ll help!” offered the Spaniard.  “Are we really sinking?”

“Of course!” shouted Captain Watson.  “How could anything else happen after being squeezed in that kind of a cider press?  We’ll go to the bottom sure!”

“Leave the boat!” yelled one of the men on top of the lock wall.  “We’re going to tow you out of the way, so when you sink you won’t block the lock!”

“Let’s get out our stuff!” Blake cried again, and realizing, but hardly understanding, what was happening, the boys rushed below to save what they could.

Fortunately it was the opening of many seams, caused by the crushing process, rather than any great hole stove in her, that had brought about the end of the Nama.  She began to sink slowly at the pier, and there was time for the removal of most of the articles of value belonging to the boys and Mr. Alcando.

Hastily the cameras, the boxes of exposed and unexposed film, were hoisted out, and then when all had been saved that could be quickly put ashore, the tug was slowly towed out of the way, where it could sink and not be a menace to navigation, and without blocking the locks.

“Poor Nama” murmured Captain Watson.  “To go down like that, and not your own fault, either,” and he looked over with no very friendly eyes toward the Brazilian steamer, which had suffered no damage more than to her paint.

“You can raise her again,” suggested one of the lock men.

“Yes, but she’ll never be the same,” sorrowfully complained her commander.  “Never the same!”

“How did it happen?” asked Blake.  “Was there a misunderstanding in signals?”

“Must have been something like that,” Captain Watson answered.  “That vessel ought to have stayed tied up on her own side of the lock.  Instead she came over here under her own steam and crashed into me.  I’m going to demand an investigation.  Do you know anyone on board her?” he asked quickly of the Spaniard.  “I saw you waving to someone.”

“Why, yes, the captain is a distant relative of mine,” was the somewhat unexpected answer.  “I did not know he was going to take his vessel through the Canal, though.  I was surprised to see him.  But I am sure you will find that Captain Martail will give you every explanation.”

“I don’t want explanations—­I want satisfaction!” growled the tug captain.

“There goes the Nama,” called Blake, pointing to the tug.

As he spoke she began to settle more rapidly in the water, but she did not sink altogether from sight, as she was towed toward the shore, and went down in rather shallow water, where she could be more easily reached for repairs.

“It was a narrow escape,” Joe said.  “What are we to do now, Blake?  Too bad we didn’t get some moving pictures of that accident.”