Now, to talk of any ordinary bird swooping, and fluttering, and tugging, does not sound very tremendous; but, reader, had you witnessed the manner in which that enormous albatross conducted itself, you wouldn’t have stared with amazement—oh, no! You wouldn’t have gone home with your mouth as wide open as your eyes, and have given a gasping account of what you had seen—by no means! You wouldn’t have talked of feathered steam-engines, or of fabled rocs, or of winged elephants in the air—certainly not!
Glynn’s arms jerked as if he were holding on to the sheet of a shifting mainsail of a seventy-four.
“Bear a hand,” he cried, “else I’ll be torn to bits.”
Several hands grasped the line in a moment.
“My! wot a wopper,” exclaimed Tim Rokens.
“Och! don’t he pull? Wot a fortin he’d make av he’d only set his-self up as a tug-boat in the Thames!”
“If only we had him at the oar for a week,” added Gurney.
“Hoich! doctor, have ye strength to set disjointed limbs?”
“Have a care, lads,” cried the captain, in some anxiety; “give him more play, the line won’t stand it. Time enough to jest after we’ve got him.”
The bird was now swooping, and waving, and beating its great wings so close to the boat that they began to entertain some apprehension lest any of the crew should be disabled by a stroke from them before the bird could be secured. Glynn, therefore, left the management of the line to others, and, taking up an oar, tried to strike it. But he failed in several attempts.