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TWENTY YEARS UNDER THE SEA
the caves, but not the iguanas. He said he had dragged a mainsail ashore and could take about half of his crowd and get out before morning. In the next lull he went. There was a general sigh of relief. But the next thing we heard was an ungodly yell and they all came back into the tent again. They had seen ghosts! Creatures were after them! What had happened was that in crawling up into the underbrush they had met the nine or ten dummies we had used in rehearsing our diving scenes, and running into cold outstretched arms had been too much. They were in again, all but the old medicine man. When daylight came I found him rolled up in his mainsail like a silkworm in a cocoon.
The flagship arrived with supplies and mail before sundown the next day. Again we had lost nothing but time, and when the water cleared we were ready to proceed. We were fast nearing the end of our new scheduled list of scenes. This time I couldn't help what Hollywood thought of it. I would see this thing through no matter what happened.
And then came news of the strange coincidence that was to round off the making of The Mysterious Island. In the batch of mail I received from the States was a bulky package. It proved to be a voluminous manuscript, a new version of the story. The director who had succeeded the great Frenchman had re-made the first three reels in perfect style and tempo to suit the supervisor. There were loud cheers. But it was the
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