"Yes," said Captain Francis Newcombe. He returned the handkerchief to his pocket.
"Gawd!" said Runnells in a shaky whisper. "An octopus! I know what that is. The thing's got suckers that would tear the flesh off you. That's where those marks on Paul's face must have come from. He must have had a fight with it before we found him."
"Yes," said Captain Francis Newcombe, "he undoubtedly did. It's rather obvious now that he had just managed in a dying effort to break loose and reach the shore. And the brute was crafty enough to know, I fancy, and waited for the tide to come farther in to bag its prey. Anyway, you won't need those spades you've got there now—and incidentally, Runnells, where the devil have you been all this time?"
Runnells was swabbing at his brow.
"It—it knocked me flat, that did," he said with a sudden, wild rush of words; "but it ain't any worse than what's happened up there. Hell's broke loose—just hell—that's what! The old bird's gone and done it. Shot himself, he has."
Captain Francis Newcombe's hand reached out and closed in a quick, tight grip on the other's shoulder.
"Come out of here!" he said abruptly. He led Runnells out beyond the overhang of the verandah, and in the better light stared into the man's face. "Now, then, what's this you say? Old Marlin's shot himself?"
"By accident," said Runnells, nodding his head excitedly; "leastways, that's what I suppose you'd call it."
"Dead?" demanded Captain Francis Newcombe.
Runnells laughed nervously.