io8 TO DAVY Jones's locker 



the 132-foot level, the depth where Commander Ellsberg 

 labored so gallantly to free the men in the Submarine S-57. 

 "200 feet" came and we stopped with the slightest pos- 

 sible jerk and hung suspended while a clamp was attached 

 — a double gripping bit of brass which bound the cable 

 and hose together to prevent the latter from breaking by 

 its own weight. Then the call came that all was clear and 

 again I knew that we were sinking, although only by the 

 upward passing of small motes of life in the water. 



"We were now very far from any touch of Mother 

 Earth; ten miles south of the shore of Bermuda, and one 

 and a half miles from the sea bottom far beneath us. At 

 300 feet, Barton gave a sudden exclamation and I turned 

 the flash on the door and saw a slow trickle of water be- 

 neath it. About a pint had already collected in the bot- 

 tom of the sphere. I wiped away the meandering stream 

 and still it came. There flashed across my mind the memory 

 of gentle rain falling on a window pane, and the first 

 drops finding their way with difficulty over the dry sur- 

 face of the glass. Then I looked out through the crystal 

 clear quartz at the pale blue, and the contrast closed in 

 on my mind like the ever deepening twilight. 



We watched the trickle. I knew the door was solid 

 enough — a mass of four hundred pounds of steel — and I 

 knew the inward pressure would increase with every foot 

 of depth. So I gave the signal to descend quickly. After 

 that, the flashlight was turned on the door-sill a dozen 

 times during our descent, but the stream did not increase. 



