The minutes passed by.  The shore boat, with the hundred-pound anchor and cable in the bow, hovered just where Captain Jack had directed, but what could be going on in the submarine at the bottom of the little harbor?

“Mr. Farnum, don’t you sometimes get nervous over such things?” demanded one of the women.

“Never,” the boatbuilder assured her.

Yet is was not long before the yard’s owner pulled out his watch to look at the dial.  Eleven minutes had passed since the disappearance of the submarine.  The next time Farnum glanced at his watch the time had lengthened to fifteen minutes.  Then the time dragged by to half an hour.

David Pollard was fighting hard to conceal the nervous dread that had seized him.

“Farnum,” he found chance to whisper, at last, “something tragic has happened to the boys, at last.  What on earth can it be?  Whatever it is, we’re utterly powerless to help them!”

CHAPTER VII

MISSING—­A SUBMARINE AND CREW

Fifteen minutes more dragged by.

“Where’s your show, Mr. Farnum?”

“Something has gone wrong, eh?”

The correspondents were pressing about the worried builder and the uneasy inventor.

“There’s a tragedy going on over there, isn’t there?” demanded another journalist, pointing out across the water.

“I—­I’m afraid there is a chance of it,” nodded Mr. Farnum, dejectedly, again looking at the watch in his hand.  “It’s getting on toward an hour since the ‘Pollard’ went down.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Is there no way to rescue the crew?”

“Don’t let those boys die, without lifting a finger to save them.”

“Get busy, man—­in heaven’s name, get busy!”

Such were the comments, questions and advice that poured in on the builder.  David Pollard, his sensitive nature suffering extremely, shrank back out of the crowd.

“Gentlemen—­and ladies, too—­don’t you understand that nothing really can be done—­at least not in a rush?” cried Jacob Farnum, the cold sweat standing out on his face.  “There isn’t a diver in or near Dunhaven, and that unfortunate boat is down in seventy feet of water.  I’m going to rush a wire to the nearest place where I know a diver to be, but I—­I am certain that it will be hours before we can hope to have one here.  That is all—­all that can possibly be done.”

“Oh, this is dreadful!” sobbed one of the women writers.  “Those brave, splendid boys—­such a fearful fate!”

“Must they be asphyxiated down there, below?” cried another woman.

“Don’t,” choked Jacob Farnum.  “I must rush for the telegraph station and get off a message for a diver—­also for a wrecking company to send tugs and floats here for raising the ‘Pollard.’  Yet it will take a wretchedly long time.”

“And the boys?  Rescue will come too late to save them?” asked a newspaper man, with a decided choke in his voice.