attached it to Sea Diver's boom, the men planned to raise 

 the barrels a few feet from the bottom and then to alter 

 the vessel's position sufficiently to swing the guns over the 

 top of the ballast pile. When Art considered that each one 

 had reached the correct position, he was to send Clayton 

 or me to the surface to signal the others to lower the boom 

 until each barrel was properly placed on the pile of rock. 



It took a good while to transfer aU four cannon. Mean- 

 while I lazed about on the bottom, making an occasional 

 trip to the surface with messages from Art, who was busily 

 rigging and placing them. Clayton was everywhere at once, 

 poking into the ballast pile, hovering over the cannon, dart- 

 ing to the surface to watch proceedings on deck and then 

 descending to swim playfully toward the circling fish. 



Near me. Art's lucite camera box, perched on its 

 weighted tripod, gleamed softly tliiough the hazy water. 

 There was an answering gleam from the silver bodies of 

 the dead bait fish scattered upon the bottom as they re- 

 flected the penetrating rays of the afternoon sun. 



Undaunted by being so rudely driven from their for- 

 mer haunts, the hog snappers had returned, poking their 

 ugly pink noses into the excavation, where Art labored over 

 the cannon. A huge sting ray, which had been napping 

 quietly in a nearby patch of grass, finally roused itself and 

 glided past me to inspect the proceedings. At the far end 

 of the ballast pile I could just make out the hovering black 

 shapes of the more timid groupers, which had fled the ex- 

 plosion. 



As soon as the fourth cannon had been placed, Art and 

 I returned to Sea Diver's deck, while Pete and Ed went 

 below to inspect the completed job. 



When they reappeared a half hour later and were re- 

 moving their masks, I said, "Where's Clayton? Isn't he 

 coming up, too?" for I suddenly realized he had been down 

 a very long time. 



100 Sea Diver 



