The unexpected jerk wellnigh capsized Claverhouse. Resisting the impulse to hack blindly, he withdrew the knife with his left hand and prepared to sever the tentacles one by one. It was no easy matter. Not only was there a danger that the sharp steel might cut either his hand or Dick's foot, but the octopus, upon receiving the stab, had liberated a quantity of black fluid that, quickly spreading, made it almost impossible to locate the slimy quivering arms.
But the octopus had already received more than it bargained for. The discharge of the inky fluid—nature's counterpart to a smoke-screen—was a preliminary move to making a strategic retreat. Almost as suddenly as the attack developed, the suckers relaxed their grip, and the cuttle-fish withdrew to render first aid to a deep but by no means vital injury to its anatomy.
The two victims to the tremendous suction exercised by the octopus's tentacles regained their feet, somewhat ruefully contemplating the livid marks left by their late antagonist.
"Thanks, awfully, Claverhouse," exclaimed Dick. "I owe you one for that."
"Enter it in the book, then," rejoined the ex-R.A.F. officer, with grim jocularity. "Hope the occasion won't arise for you to call quits."
He quizzically regarded his youthful companion, gauging his physical inconveniences by his own.
"S'pect you've had enough of the beach to-day," he continued. "If I were you, I'd go on board and get something for that ankle of yours. A real Futurist picture, I call it."
Dick decided otherwise.
"I'm not going to spoil a day's sport for the sake of a smarting ankle," he protested. "It's roast pork for to-morrow's dinner, and pork I mean to get. I'm all right; I am really."
Claverhouse did not press the point, and the two comrades pursued their way.