“That might be risky,” admitted Reade.  “I’ll go over the side after them and bring them up.

“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.  “Mr. Reade has nerve, but he also has brains in his head.  Any man with brains and the sense to use ’em goes to the top, while I stay down a good deal lower, and you, Rastus, are still lower.”

“Ah reckon Ah got a two-bit hat on top o’ only two cents’ wo’th o’ brains, Misto Conlon,” grinned the darkey.

Conlon was an Irishman, and naturally, therefore, no coward.  Yet with the possibility that Tom would run afoul of a contact-exploding bomb and send them all skyward, the engine tender waited at the rail with drawn breath.

Finally, there was a ripple on the water.  Then Tom’s head appeared; next his shoulders.

“Conlon!”

“Here, sir.”

“Here is one of the bombs.  Handle it carefully.”

“Trust me, sir.”

Conlon drew the metal tube, with a piece of wire pendant from it, as carefully as though it had been a royal baby and heir to a throne.  Into the boat the engine tender lifted the thing, and laid it carefully in a locker.  By the time that Conlon was back at the rail Reade had gone below again.

“Down dere, aftah mo’ death!” grinned the darkey.  A colored man can usually be brave when serving under a white leader in whom he has full confidence.

Presently Tom came up with another metal tube, like the first.

“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.”