“I’ve got two hours’ more row in me,” said Gregory quietly. “By that time the men will have another hour in them, and at the worst we could manage another hour afterwards. Before then we must have reached camp.”
“Ah, what’s that?” cried the captain as the boat struck something.
“Bock,” cried Gregory. “No, too soft.”
“Row! row!” said Mark. “It was a monstrous fish—a shark.”
“You could not see it?” cried the captain hoarsely, as he bent to his oar, Gregory following his example, so that the boat surged through the water.
“I saw something dark amongst these golden eel things, and they all seemed to rush away like lightning.”
There was a dead silence in the boat for the next quarter of an hour, during which the rowers pulled with all their might. No one spoke for fear of giving vent to his thoughts—thoughts suggested by the adventure early in the day; but every one sat there fully expecting to see the savage-looking head of some shark thrust from the water and come over into the boat.
The suffering was for a time intense, but no further shock was felt, and as the minutes glided away their hopes rose that if this last were an enemy they were rapidly leaving it behind.
All at once Mark half rose from his place.
“Is that the light over the mountain?” he exclaimed.