“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Tom. Cast him off. Here’s my knife. Cut the line.”
“Why? Let’s go on a bit further,” begged Tom.
“It would be all right if your fish motor would tow us toward the White Shark, but look back there!”
Tom turned and saw the White Shark terribly far off. He thought of the long pull back to her, and his muscles fairly ached in anticipation. Hesitating no longer, he took Jack’s proffered knife and slashed the line. As he did so, a few yards ahead a huge barracuda gave a leap into the air, landing back with a mighty splash and darting off at a mile-a-minute gait.
“There, that’s what gave us a tow away out here,” declared Tom, as the huge fish, which must have weighed two or three hundred pounds, vanished. “Wouldn’t it have been great if we could have induced him to turn round and tow us back to the White Shark? I’d have begged him a bucketful of bait for the kindness.”
“Well, quit talking rot and pick up the oars,” admonished Jack.
He had been looking about him and noticing a curious effect in the atmosphere. A sort of filmy haze had grown up between them and the White Shark, almost obscuring the latter.
HESITATING NO LONGER—HE SLASHED THE LINE.
Tom picked up the oars, grumbling as he did so.