“Look at that,” shouted Billy Widgeon excitedly, as all of a sudden the shark was seen to leap clear out of the water, and fall back with a tremendous splash, not head first, so as to dive down, but on its flank, sending the water flying, while directly after the sea in that direction became tremendously agitated, sending waves toward them sufficiently big to make the boat rise and fall.
“He’s in his flurry, Mr Mark, sir,” said Billy Widgeon gleefully. “I can’t abear sharks.”
“Pull hard, Gregory,” said the captain; “the sooner we are away from here the better.”
He spoke in a low voice, and exchanged meaning glances with the mate, who at once bent to his oar.
“No, no: don’t go,” cried Mark. “I should like to see him when he’s dead.”
“I’m afraid there will be no shark to see,” said the captain grimly, as the gig surged through the water.
“Why, there’s his back fin, and there it is again and again,” cried Mark. “How he keeps curving out of the water and dashing about! I say, father, row back and put him out of his misery.”
“I daresay he is out of it by this time, my boy,” said the captain, rowing hard.
“But there he is again, swimming round and beating the water.”
“Why, Mark, can’t you see that the water there is alive with sharks, and that they are devouring their wounded brother—fighting for the choice morsels, I dare say. This is a warning never to bathe except in some pool.”