“Help!  Aboard the submarine!”

This time, though the appeal seemed to come from a great distance, she distinguished the words.

“Something wrong with the diving boat, and someone aboard!” she thought, with a tugging throb at the heart.  Turning, she sped down to the water’s edge.

“Help! help!  The boat is sinking, and I’m helpless aboard.”

She could see the bow slanting forward in the water, and realized that all was wrong with the torpedo boat, and with some hapless human being aboard.  In that instant Grace Desmond’s courage rang true.

Espying the rowboat, she bounded into it, snatching up an oar and pushing off.  At home on the water and skilled with oars, she pulled a strong, rapid stroke until she lay alongside the “Pollard.”

“Keep cool.  Help is coming!” called the girl, as she ran alongside.  She caught at the lower portion of the deck rail and drew herself up.  It was but an instant later when she went gliding down the spiral stairway.

Then, all in a flash, she caught sight of Jack Benson, lashed to the stanchion.  She comprehended, also, that whoever had tied the boy in this fashion must have thrown the sea-valves partly open.  That floor was fast becoming an unsteady platform.

“You turn on the compressed air with a wrench, don’t you?” she demanded, swiftly.

“Yes,” nodded the submarine boy.  Then added, instantly: 

“But you’re a woman.  These risks are not for you.  Rush up through the manhole and escape.  There may be time.”

“Where’s the wrench?  Tell me quickly,” commanded Grace Desmond.  “I can turn on the air more quickly than I can set you free to do it.”

“Yes,” breathed the boy, rapidly, “because I’m manacled, anyway.  But save yourself, Miss Desmond.”

“We must both go down if you don’t tell me quickly where to find the wrench,” cried the girl, stamping her foot with impatience.

Then Jack told her, only when he realized that she would not save herself at his expense.  Fortunately, Josh Owen had overlooked securing that wrench and throwing it overboard.  In another moment Miss Desmond had the implement.

“The forward compressor, first,” Jack directed.

With a quick comprehension that asked only bare details, Miss Desmond fitted the wrench just where it should go.

“A hard turn forward,” called Benson.

The girl gave the twist, as directed, as hard a turn as she could make.  To her horror she fancied the muscles of her wrist not quite equal to the need of that dread movement.  The floor was slanting so that she was obliged to throw out her left hand to clutch at a support in order to hold herself up.

“Don’t try it any longer.  Get overboard, Miss Desmond, if there’s yet time.  In heaven’s name do!” begged Jack, in a horrified tone.  “I can stand going to the bottom if I don’t have to drag you down with me.  Escape!”