Percy drew the dory alongside and jumped in. Meanwhile the harpoon staff was dragged aboard by the line attached to it, the pole-iron having pulled out of the socket in the dart when the fish was struck. Jim stuck on a fresh dart, attached to another warp and buoy, and was ready for a second strike.
"Pass Percy that lance, Filippo!" he ordered.
"He may need it to keep off the sharks."
The Italian handed to Whittington a short, stout pole, on its end a two-foot iron rod, flattened to a point shaped like a tablespoon, and filed to razor sharpness. Percy set out in pursuit of the red barrel, now almost two hundred yards to starboard.
"Another fin to port!" hailed Budge; and the Barracouta sheered off in quest of a second prize.
For the first few minutes, though Percy rowed his prettiest, he could not hold his own with the moving barrel. Each glance over his shoulder showed that it was farther away. He bent stoutly to his oars. The sloop was heading in the opposite direction, and the distance between them widened rapidly. The wind had veered still further to the east and the fog hung more thickly on the horizon.
The barrel was nearer. At last he had begun to gain on it. He rowed with renewed vigor. Either the fish was tiring out or had stopped swimming altogether. Presently the dory bumped against the keg.
Pulling in his oars and dropping them over the thwarts, he sprang forward and gaffed the buoy. A moment later he had lifted it aboard and was pulling in the warp.
The first ten feet came over the gunwale without any resistance; then he had to surge against the sag of a dead weight. The fish had either given up the ghost or was too exhausted to struggle.
Fifty fathoms is a long distance to drag two hundred pounds. Percy's arms began to ache before he had coiled in half the warp. Then he was treated to a surprise.