The fish was swimming at a moderate rate, and the sloop had no trouble in catching up with him. The two stiff fins betrayed him.
LEANING AGAINST THE MAST-HOOP THAT ENCIRCLED HIS WAIST, HE LIFTED THE LONG LANCE AND POISED IT FOR THE BLOW
"Swordfish all right!" muttered Jim. "Not quite so big as the other one, but too good to lose! Steady, Throppy!"
Foot by foot the Barracouta's bowsprit forged up on their prospective prey. Nobody spoke. Jim's grip on the pine staff tightened; his eye measured the distance to the dull-blue shoulder.
Six inches further ... five ... four ... three ... two ... one ... now!
With all his might he drove the harpoon downward, straight for its mark. There was a tremendous flurry, and down went the fish, leaving a trail of blood.
"Got him that time! Right through the shoulder! Over with that warp and barrel, Filippo!"
The Italian obeyed, his eyes wide as saucers. Soon the coils of the fifty-fathom lobster-warp had straightened out in the wake of the terrified fugitive, and the red buoy danced off over the wave-crests.
"He's up to you, Perce!" shouted Jim. "Go after him! Only be sure to remember what I told you coming out. Keep your eye on the barrel! Haul it aboard as soon as you can, and coil in the warp. Don't get snarled up in it if he starts running again."