I changed
my mind: I would go down. I must not miss such a chance; it would give
me a better understanding of this strange business; and there was no
particular danger in it, only a little discomfort. Then I wavered again,
and thought of accidents to divers, and tragedies of diving. What if
something went wrong! What if the hose burst or the air-valve stuck! Or
suppose I should injure my hearing, in spite of Atkinson's assurance? I
looked up a book on diving, and found that certain persons are warned
not to try it--full-blooded men, very pale men, men who suffer much from
headache, men subject to rheumatism, men with poor hearts or lungs, and
others. The list seemed to include everybody, and certainly included me
on at least two counts. Nevertheless I kept to my purpose; I would go
down.

[Illustration: THE AUTHOR GOING DOWN IN A DIVER'S SUIT.]

It was rising tide the next afternoon, an hour before slack water (slack
water is the diver's harvest-time), when the crew of the steam-pump
_Dunderberg_ gathered on deck to witness my descent and assist in
dressing me; for no diver can dress himself. The putting on a
diving-suit is like squeezing into an enormous pair of rubber boots
reaching up to the chin, and provided with sleeves that clutch the
wrists tightly with clinging bands, to keep out the water. Thus incased,
you feel as helpless and oppressed as a tightly stuffed sawdust doll,
and you stand anxiously while the men put the gasket (a rubber joint)
over your shoulders and make it fast with thumb-screws, under a heavy
copper collar. Next you step into a pair of thirty-pound iron shoes that
are strapped over your rubber feet. And now they lead you to an iron
ladder that reaches down from rail to water. You lift your feet somehow
over the side, right foot, left foot, and feel around for the
ladder-rungs. Then you bend forward on the deck, face down, as a man
would lay his neck on the block. This is to let the helpers make fast
around your waist the belt that is to sink you presently with its
hundred pounds of lead. Under this belt you feel the life-line noose
hugging below your arms, a stout rope trailing along the deck, that will
follow you to the bottom, and haul you back again safely, let us hope.
Beside it trails the precious black hose that brings you air.

Now Atkinson himself lifts the copper helmet with its three goggle-eyes,
and prepares to screw it on. The men watch your face sharply; they have
seen novices