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 “We know already that it possesses great speed. Now as there is a machine with this attribute, and a machinist to direct it, I conclude that we are safe.”

“Hum,” replied Ned Land, doubtfully.

At this moment, and as a commentary upon my remark, a disturbance arose at the stern of this strange vessel, whose mode of propulsion was evidently a screw, and it began to move. We had scarcely time to secure ourselves to the higher part, which was about a yard out of water. Fortunately the speed was not great.

“So long as it goes over the waves, I have no particular objection,” said Ned Land. “But if it should take a dive, I would not give $2 for my skin.”

The Canadian might have made even a lower estimate. But under the circumstances, it was necessary to communicate with the beings shut up in this machine. I looked for an opening—a panel—a “man hole,” to use the technical term, but the lines of rivets solidly fixed upon the joinings of the iron plates were whole and regular.

Moreover, the moon deserted us, and left us in profound obscurity. We were, therefore, obliged to wait for daylight, to find means to penetrate into the interior of this submarine vessel.

Thus our safety depended entirely upon the caprice of the mysterious helmsman who guided this machine: if he descended we were lost. Unless this occurred, I had no doubt of being able to communicate with the crew. And indeed if they did not manufacture the air they breathed, they must come to the surface from time to time to replenish the supply. Thus the necessity for an aperture communicating with the outer air.