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“How? What happens?” asked Foster.

“Battery gas, or, in chemical terms, chlorine gas is formed. It is one of the most poisonous and suffocating of all gases. That is the real danger in submarine boats–suffocation from chlorine. It will remain so until we get a better form of motive power, liquid or compressed air, perhaps. And here”–Ross led them to a valve wheel amidships–“as though to invite such disaster, they’ve given us a sea cock.”

“What’s it for?” asked Foster.

“To sink the boat in case of fire. It’s an inheritance from steamboats–pure precedent–and useless, for a submarine cannot catch fire. Why, a few turns of that wheel when in the awash trim would admit enough water in two minutes to sink the boat. I’ve applied for permission to abolish it.”

“Two minutes, you say. Does it turn easy? Would it be possible to accidentally turn it?”

“Very easy, and very possible. I caution my men every day.”

“And in case you do sink, and do not immediately suffocate, how do you rise?”

“By pumping out the water. There’s a strong pump connected with that motor aft there, that will force out water against the pressure of the sea at fifty fathoms down. That is ten atmospheres–pretty hard pressure. But, if the motor gets wet, it is useless to work the pump; so, we can be satisfied that, if we sink by means of the sea cock, we stay sunk. There is a hand pump, to use on the surface with dead batteries, but it is useless at any great depth.”

“What do you mean by the awash trim, lieutenant?” asked Foster, who was now looking out through the deadlight.

“The diving trim–that is, submerged all but the conning-tower. I’ll show you, so that you can say that you have really been under water.”

Ross turned a number of valves similar to the sea cock, and the girl’s face took on a look of doubt and sudden apprehension.

“You are not going to sink the boat, are you, Mr. Ross?” she asked.

“Oh, no, just filling the tanks. When full, we still have three hundred pounds reserve buoyancy, and would have to go ahead and steer down. But we won’t go ahead. Come forward, and I’ll show you the torpedo-tube.”

Foster remained, moodily staring through the deadlight, while the other two went forward. Ross noticed his abstraction, and, ascribing it to weariness of technical detail, did not press him to follow, and continued his lecture to Miss Fleming in a lower tone and in evident embarrassment.

“Now, here is the tube,” he said. “See this rear door. It is water-tight. When a torpedo is in the tube, as it is now, we admit water, as well; and, to expel the torpedo, we only have to open the forward door, apply compressed air, and out it goes. Then it propels and steers itself. We have a theory–no, not a theory now, for it has been proved–that, in case of accident, a submarine’s crew can all be ejected through the tube except the last man. He must remain to die, for he cannot eject himself. That man”–Ross smiled and bowed low to the girl–“must be the commander.”

“How terrible!” she answered, interested, but looking back abstractedly at Foster. “Why do you remain at this work? Your life is always in danger.”

“And on that account promotion is more probable. I want promotion, and more pay”–he lowered his voice and took her hand–“so that I may ask for the love and the life companionship of the dearest and best girl in the world.”

She took her gaze off Foster, cast one fleeting glance into the young lieutenant’s pleading face, then dropped her eyes to the deck, while her face flushed rosily. But she did not withdraw her hand.

“Must you wait for promotion?” she said, at length.

“No, Irene, no,” exclaimed Ross, excitedly, squeezing the small hand in his own. “Not if you say so; but I have nothing but my pay.”