With no air tanks chafing his back, he felt akin
to the fishes themselves.
"Wish I'd brought a hook and line along." He chuckled, as a school of
mackerel darted past.
Now came the real test. Deeper and deeper, Tom cleaved his way downward.
Reaching bottom, he prowled about the ocean bed for a while, then
started up again. Suddenly a stab of pain shot through his chest--a
warning of nitrogen bubbles forming in his blood!
Tom swam toward the signal cord, dangling dimly in the distance. By the
time he reached it, his muscles were knotting with cramps.
"It's the bends again, all right!" Tom realized. Gritting his teeth, he
yanked hard on the line, then summoned his strength to hang on.
Doc and Chow hauled up frantically. Tom's face was contorted with pain
when they finally got him aboard and stripped off his mask.
"Oh! How awful!" Phyl gasped.
Sandy cradled Tom's head in her lap, and Phyl held his hand
sympathetically, while Doc Simpson injected a hypodermic to ease the
pain. Chow steered the launch back to shore, and Tom was rushed to the
base infirmary in an ambulance.
Here he was placed in a decompression chamber for several hours and
later transferred to a hospital bed. Bud Barclay came to visit him.
"We're a fine couple of fish," he said.
Tom chuckled wryly. "_Live_ fish, anyhow.
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