“What’s he going to do, Grant?” exclaimed Fred.
“I don’t know. Watch him.”
“Do you think he can kill the shark with that knife?”
“He’s evidently going to try.”
“He’ll be too late.”
John was perhaps a hundred and fifty yards from shore now. Slowly he was nearing land and safety, but could he reach it? The great shark still circled around and around the unfortunate boy, evidently waiting for some moment when John should be off his guard to give him an opportunity to strike. John was determined that this should not happen, however, and he watched the shark just as closely as he himself was watched. First he swam on one side and then on the other, then on his back and then on his stomach. Not for a second did he relax his watchfulness.
“Look at Sam go!” exclaimed Grant. “He’s a marvelous swimmer.”
“He’s that all right, but I wish he would get there.”
“There goes the shark,” cried Grant, and as he spoke the big fin could be seen to shoot with lightning-like rapidity in close to the spot where John was. A great splashing immediately followed and then the fin appeared once more some ten or twelve yards distant.
“Whew! That was close,” gasped Grant, his lips ashen with terror.