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Updated: June 6, 2025
But by then Rick was within reach of the rock pile, and he went over it in a headlong dive, rolling like a tumbler as he landed. Quickly he flattened out, as close to the rocks as he could get. A bullet whined off the top of the pile, and then there was silence. Rick's heart pounded and his breath came in gasps. He had made it! But how about Scotty?
Since Rick knew the approximate position where he had tied it to the projecting stump, he led the way toward shallow water, hoping to intercept it. The water shoaled rapidly as the boys approached the shore. Scotty's hand suddenly gripped Rick's, and Rick felt the line. At the same instant, Rick was aware of bubbles in the water, a trail of faint phosphorescence shooting downward past his mask.
This is the first time I ever attended a full gathering of the National Synod of Sharks housebreaking, swindling, and financiering all represented. Please examine Mr. Rick's credentials, Mr. Peters. "The piece of newspaper that Bill Bassett handed me had a good picture of this Ricks on it. It was a Chicago paper, and it had obloquies of Ricks in every paragraph.
They frayed one end with a jackknife to make the torch. "Got a match?" Rick asked. Scotty looked at him blankly, then grinned. "No, have you?" "No match, no flint or steel, no ... hey, wait! I've got a pocket lens!" Rick's enthusiasm for microscopy had extended to the purchase of a twelve-power pocket lens to supplement the microscope Barby had given him.
Rick carefully checked his equipment, something that no diver can ever take for granted or leave to someone else, while Scotty did the same. Then they put the equipment on and adjusted face masks. Their knives, Rick's camera, and Scotty's spear and gun were somewhere near the wreck. They would have to get them another time. The group entered the water.
Rick felt a hand grip his chin and opened his eyes. The intern was examining his face with a strong flashlight beam. "Messy but superficial," the intern said calmly. "I'll bet it hurts." "You win," Rick muttered. "How did it happen?" Steve described Rick's accident briefly. The intern nodded. He shined the light into Rick's eyes and watched the pupils contract. "Possible concussion.
The newspaper wasn't burning very well, probably because he had rolled it too tightly. They could see only a trace of daylight. The old shaft turned at nearly right angles where a geological fault had forced the Civil War miners to change directions in order to follow the vein of good ore. The turn cut off most of the light, except for the waning flicker of Rick's torch.
Though this artist chap did make a lot of improvements on his own." "But think of the Long Hall " began Ricky, rolling her eyes heavenward. "And just what do you know about the Long Hall?" demanded Rupert. "Why, that's where dear Great-great-uncle Rick's ghost is supposed to walk, isn't it?" she asked innocently. "I hope that our late tenant didn't scare him away.
Then, one day the Brants' family doctor announced that he was fine, and a bandage was no longer needed. Barby looked at the scar on Rick's forearm and her eyes opened wide. "Rick! That was a terrible cut! How on earth did you get it?" He couldn't tell her the real story. He had been instructed by his father not to mention it, even to Barby. "It was pretty exciting," he said.
Rick suddenly rocked back as his ears were smitten by sound. A wail echoed in his head, so intense that it almost hurt. Scotty started, too, and reached for the ledge in his astonishment. The octopus peered out of the cave, and the wail came again, buzzing uncomfortably in their heads. And in that moment, Rick's air gave out.
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