“Miggs’s been jugged,” he cried breathlessly. “He and Joe Hines. The bobbies come and took ’em an hour ago. He told me, when he saw ’em comin’, to run and tell you.” CHAPTER IX The engines of the motor boat slowed, gave a final chug, and stopped. “Brading Harbor,” remarked our boy guide laconically, as he threw the anchor, and stepped to the stern to pull in the skiff that trailed after us. Before us lay the estuary of the Yar, its black water scarcely differentiated in color from the dark shores that rose above it. A huddle of buildings lifting on our left changed from blots of blackness into shadowy outlines, sprinkled here and there with light, as we rowed in. The lad pulled steadily, with but an occasional glance at the shore. The steady strokes of the oar slowed down, the blackness ahead seemed to rush towards us more swiftly, and the boat ran silently up on to the sand. I jumped out, the little anchor in my hand. We were at Brading Harbor. Without a word, the boy pulled up the boat, dug the flukes of the anchor deep into the sand, and started off into the darkness. “Come on, Tom,” I said laughing. “This is an Arabian Night Expedition headed by one of the mutes of Haroun Al Raschid. Hustle up, or we’ll be left behind.” About three hundred yards from our landing-place our guide suddenly disappeared; we came abruptly on the corner of a small brick building, and rounded it to find him working on the padlock of a broad, low door. “Bee’s here,” remarked the boy, flinging the door open as we came up. We stepped just inside and paused. The scratch of a fusee, the clatter of a lifted lantern, and the low room sprung into light. A weird sight met our eyes. On a shelf three great diving helmets, with shining cyclopean eyes of heavy glass, reflected back the lantern’s flame, and showed barred side windows looking like caged ear-muffs. On the shelf below three pair of huge shoes, with leaden soles, seemed ready for some giant’s foot, rather than for the use of man. As the light shifted, the armor on the wall came into view; copper breastplate and twilled overalls, hosepipe and coils of safety line; a veritable museum of diving paraphernalia. Tom turned to the boy. “You’ll have to show us very carefully how to run the safety line and the air pump, while you’re down.” “I don’t go down,” said the boy. “Heart’s wike loike. Niver go down.” Tom and I stared at each other in consternation. With one accord we turned to the boy again. “Who is going down?” I cried. “Ayther of you thot loikes,” responded the boy calmly. “I’ll be the one to go, Tom,” I cried, “I’ve got to see it with my own eyes to write it up properly.” “Why can’t we both go?” exclaimed Tom eagerly. “I don’t want to be out of this.” The boy broke in. “Needs two men oop on rope and poomp.”