“Hardly likely, but it’s sure to be a relation,” said Syd, laughing, as they stood watching the movements of the shark, which seemed to be puzzled by its quarters, and was now showing its tail as it dived down under a beam, now raising its head to glide over and disappear in the depths of the ship’s hold.
The men were not long in getting the line that had been used to tow the vessel to its moorings, and a freely running noose was prepared and tested by Rogers, who suddenly threw it over one of his messmates’ heads, gave it a snatch, and drew it taut. Taking it off, he lassoed another in the same way.
“That’s the tackle,” he said, smiling. “Next thing is to get it round the shark.”
“Yes,” said Roylance, “but it’s something like the rats putting the bell on the cat’s neck. Who’s to do it?”
“Oh, I’m a-going to do it, sir,” said Rogers, shaking out the rope. “Lay hold, messmates, and when I says ‘now!’ have him out and over the rocks here.—P’r’aps, sir, you’d like to have an axe to give him number one?”
“How do you mean?”
“One on the tail, sir, to fetch it off; only look out, for he’s pretty handy with his tail.”
“That’s what some one said of the man who had his legs shot off,” whispered Roylance, laughing, “that he was pretty handy with the wooden ones.”
“We’re ready, sir,” said Rogers, “when you likes to give the word.”
“But about danger, my man?” said Syd, who half-wondered at himself, as he hectored over the crew, and thought that he was a good deal like Terry, who was contemptuously looking on.