The Sea Monster was a magnificent swimmer. Its neck cut through the water like the stem of a Viking ship, and it left a frothing wake behind. Every once in a while it would plunge its head into the water and come up with a fish, which it would swallow whole.
"Should you like some breakfast, David?" said the Sea Monster.
"No, thank you," David answered, "but you go right ahead. Phoenix," he added, "what are you doing?"
The Phoenix, which had been walking up and down with its wings clasped behind its back, stopped and gazed over the sea. "Pacing the quarter-deck, my boy. Scanning the horizon. That is what one usually does at sea, I believe."
"You'll be wanting us to call you Admiral next," said the Sea Monster acidly.
They steamed on. Twenty minutes and seventy-six large breakfast fish later they sighted the island—a little smudge on the horizon, dead ahead.
"Land ho!" a voice croaked. "Thank heavens."
David turned in surprise. The Phoenix was no longer pacing the quarter-deck and scanning the horizon. It was sitting limply with its head down and a glassy stare in its eyes.
