The terrific speed of the vessel and of her mighty enemy made aiming exceedingly difficult, and, added to this, the elephant gun was a weapon to which Wilson was entirely unaccustomed.
Once more he raised it to his shoulder, and fired the second barrel.
This time the shell struck the reptile’s head, but glanced off the gleaming scales without exploding.
“The brute must be made of steel,” the engineer muttered savagely as he retired, disheartened by his failure. As the net result of his effort he had succeeded in still further enraging his huge opponent, and had badly bruised his own shoulder.
The floor of the turret was awash when he entered, but he cared little for a discomfort of so trivial a character.
The peril of the moment completely dispelled all other thoughts from his mind. As he once more grasped the wheel-spokes, a half-formed resolution came over him—that, if he and the Seal were to be destroyed, the great reptile should perish with them.
He had partly turned the submarine for the purpose of ramming his terrible enemy, when a filmy wisp of vapour drifted across the deck.
He looked up quickly.
A moment later a vast cloud of blinding mist rolled down upon the vessel, blotting out the surface of the water and enveloping pursued and pursuer in a thick white veil.
“Thank God!” the engineer cried fervently, as the Seal raced on into the friendly shelter of the mist.