David Pollard, his sensitive nature suffering extremely, shrank
back out of the crowd.
"Gentlemen--and ladies, too--don't you understand that nothing really
can be done--at least not in a rush?" cried Jacob Farnum, the cold sweat
standing out on his face. "There isn't a diver in or near Dunhaven, and
that unfortunate boat is down in seventy feet of water. I'm going to
rush a wire to the nearest place where I know a diver to be, but I--I am
certain that it will be hours before we can hope to have one here. That
is all--all that can possibly be done."
"Oh, this is dreadful!" sobbed one of the women writers. "Those brave,
splendid boys--such a fearful fate!"
"Must they be asphyxiated down there, below?" cried another woman.
"Don't," choked Jacob Farnum. "I must rush for the telegraph station and
get off a message for a diver--also for a wrecking company to send tugs
and floats here for raising the 'Pollard.' Yet it will take a wretchedly
long time."
"And the boys? Rescue will come too late to save them?" asked a newspaper
man, with a decided choke in his voice.
Jacob Farnum made a wild dash for his office, telephoning for a messenger
boy. While waiting he wrote two telegrams in feverish haste.
Several of the newspaper people wrote hasty, excited dispatches to their
papers for the evening editions. The messenger boy, when he arrived on
a run, was all but loaded down with paper.
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