“By gosh, it’s heavy,” he soliloquised. “Dashed good thing this line is strong.”
The line was strong; it had held an eight foot grey-nurse shark.
Foot by foot the first mate hauled in.
“Here it comes!” he ejaculated, “what the devil is it, though!”
“Why, my God!” screamed the horrified deck-hand, “IT’S A MAN!!”
George had leaned over the rail to examine his haul, and at the last pull a human head, ghastly and horrible, with livid face, and dank, dripping, matted hair, had risen to the surface. His horrified gaze met the open staring eyes of a corpse!
For one moment he was petrified, fascinated, frozen with horror!
Then he let the line run through his fingers, leaped on to the wharf with a mighty bound and coatless, hatless, charged up the street in the direction of the police station.
The Sergeant had gone to bed, but he rose in his pyjamas and came out on to the verandah in answer to a loud, insistent knocking.