ii8 TO DAVY Jones's locker 



of iridescent swimming bits of air, and, for a moment, 

 forgot whither we were bound. 



The boundary of air and water above me appeared 

 perfectly solid, and like a slowly waving, pale green 

 canopy, quilted everywhere with deep, pale puckers — the 

 sharp apexes of the wavelets above showing as smooth, 

 rounded indentations below. The sunlight sifted down in 

 long, oblique rays as if through some unearthly beautiful 

 cathedral window. The host of motes of dust had their 

 exact counterpart in mid-water, only the general feeling 

 of color was cool green, not yellow. The water was so clear 

 that I could see dimly the distant keel of the Gladisfen, 

 rolling gently. And here and there, like bunches of mistle- 

 toe hanging from a chandelier, were clusters of golden 

 sargassum weed, with only their upper tips hidden, break- 

 ing through into the air. A stray berry went past my 

 window and I saw an amusing likeness between its di- 

 minutive air-filled sphere and that which was at present 

 my home. 



The last thing in focus, of the upper world, was a long, 

 undulating sea serpent of a rope dangling down from the 

 side of the Ready. 



We had asked to be lowered slowly. When less than 50 

 feet beneath the surface I happened to glance at a large, 

 deep-sea prawn which I had taken for color experiment. 

 To my astonishment it was no longer scarlet, but a deep 

 velvety black. I opened my copy of "Depths of the Ocean" 



