"Let's hope it reaches them soon," another voice replied. "This waiting is what hurts." Tim was drowsy, his mind a blank. The end was near for all of them. Another half hour, not much longer. An occasional earth tremor could be felt, but they were less distinct. Tim was on the verge of unconsciousness when the _S-18_ rocked sharply as though a giant hand had grasped the conning tower and was shaking the big undersea craft in a playful manner. There was the faint sound of scraping metal, followed by another shock which threw men from their bunks. Water was cascading in upon them. Screams filled the air. "We've broken in two," was one desperate cry. Tim struggled to get to his feet. Water swished about his feet and someone knocked him down. Pat was shouting wildly. "Shut up!" he cried. "Try and get to your stations. We're moving!" Men paused, dazed by the words. Gradually the meaning penetrated their fagged brains and through the darkness they hunted for their places. Pat was right. Without power of its own, the _S-18_ was moving. Slowly at first, then with an upward rush that tumbled them about like jack-straws. The slim nose burst through the water and rose above the surface. Commander Ford, who had remained in the control room, crawled up the ladder and opened the main hatch. A breath of fresh, sweet air, swept down into grateful faces. One by one the men crawled out on the deck. It was the dawn of the second day. They had been saved from death below the surface, saved by an earthquake which had shifted the wreckage of the Southern Queen off the hull of the _S-18_. Tim looked toward the Isle of the Singing Trees. The seaplane was riding safely just off the beach. It was less than 48 hours since they had gone below but he had lived a lifetime in those desperate hours of darkness and despair. For half an hour they relaxed, basking in the sunshine of the early morning. Then they set about making the _S-18_ ready for the long cruise back to New York. Tim, remembering the story he had written while they were on the bottom, plunged below. Part of the paper was wet, but Ike Green decided he could read it and he sat down at the radio to transmit it to the New York Journal and the Atkinson _News_. "I'm sending a story on the recovery of the treasure," Tim said to Commander Ford. "How much shall I say the gold totals?" "It will exceed two million dollars," smiled the Commander, "which means a tidy sum for every member of the crew." "I wouldn't go through that experience again for a whole million," replied Tim. "Neither would I," agreed the Commander. "It was little short of a miracle that saved us from death." Out of the air crackled a message that afternoon. It was from George Carson, back in Atkinson. "Your story is the best of the year," radioed the managing editor of the _News_. "Congratulations on a fine piece of writing, but don't take any more chances by going down in a submarine."