The bird was an albatross, largest of all sea birds. Ted had learned a great deal about them from the old sailors, who called them gonies. They followed ships for thousands of miles, sleeping on the sea, or soaring miles on end, with their long, narrow wings spread wide.
This one, beyond a doubt, had been following their task force, but had been frightened away by the big guns.
“What’ll I do with you?” he demanded of the bird.
His answer was a snap on the ankle from its powerful jaws.
“I should kill and eat you,” he exclaimed. “You’re worse than a Jap! But I won’t—not yet. Men don’t eat gonies unless they have to. It’s supposed to bring bad luck. I’ll tie you up, that’s what I’ll do. Then we’ll try our luck together. If I’m rescued, you go free. If not, you get eaten.”
The gony winked as if he really understood. Then for good measure, he nipped at Ted’s ankle once more.
“You’ll be some company,” Ted said, as after binding the bird’s feet, he fastened a wide strap taken from his parachute about its wings and body.
Late in the afternoon he caught a fairly large fish. After pressing water from its meat, he drank a little. “Not impossible,” was his verdict. He ate some of the meat, then offered a bite to his gony, who, to his surprise, swallowed it.
“You must be a young fellow,” he said. “Friendly and green, like myself.” He laughed, and felt better.
Just as the sun was sinking in the west he saw a dark smudge that soon obscured the sun. “A ship!” He became greatly excited. Another smudge, and yet another. “The task force!” he exclaimed, standing up and nearly overturning his raft. “If only it would come this way!”