The ten minutes that elapsed after Howard had “fired off” the missionary were the longest that any of the party had ever known. Beneath the water, beneath the weed, in darkness so intense that it positively weighed, each waited in silence the results of the venture on which, in all human probability, depended his or her chance for life. For if Mr. Willoughby, comparatively small, agile, and a good swimmer, could not get through the interlacing weed, the chances were that none of the others could do so. Bearing Mr. Willoughby’s clothes, Howard had groped his way back to the conning-tower, and to Dorothy’s side, and had found her on her knees. “Oh! Frank! Frank!” she sobbed. “Let us pray for him. Frank! Frank!” Howard sank beside her, and no more fervent petition than his was ever wafted to the throne of grace. Slowly the minutes ticked themselves away. Then, just as hope seemed gone, the Seashark gave a sudden lurch, and a gasp of relief arose. It required no expert to tell her passengers that something was happening above the water--a something that could have but one cause. Howard explained it: “Mr. Willoughby has cut one of the cables that are holding us down--there goes another--and another.” A faint light showed through the grass-filled peep-holes of the conning-tower; promise of the glorious burst to come. “We are rising. We are tearing free.” Rapidly the light grew, until a tiny beam from the westering sun shot straight through a window, and danced gaily about as the Seashark rocked to and fro on the smooth surface. At sight of it the women sobbed aloud. What the men did in the darkness can only be guessed. Rapidly Howard threw back the cover of the manhole, and let the blessed air of heaven in. Instantly Mr. Willoughby’s head appeared. “Have you got my clothes there?” he demanded in a stage whisper. With a snicker of relief, Howard passed up the clothes and, when the missionary was properly arrayed, called all the rest to come on deck. The Seashark was floating in the familiar ocean of weed. No open water was in sight; if any was near it was not visible from a point so low in the water. Wreckage floated here and there; not a hundred yards away was the hulk of a dismasted water-logged lumber schooner, and a little farther off were the tangled spars of a huge ship. Howard looked around him and shook his head. “It’s farther to clear water than I had thought,” he told Dorothy. “Not that it matters. We’ll be out to-morrow morning.” He turned to the rest. “Joyce! if you and Jackson will cut away the weed from around our propeller, I’ll do the rest. Mr. Willoughby will give you his knives. By the way, don’t lay them down on the water, or they’ll be a mile or so deep when we want them again.” Joyce turned to Willoughby, who blushed. “I--I’m afraid that’s just what I did do, Mr. Howard,” he explained, confusedly. “Anyway, I’ve lost one of the two you gave me.”