"School of sharks!" shouted Greer, coming toward his leader at a foamy speed.
"School of sharks!" echoed Madden with a sharp thrill. "Where? Which way?"
"Must be toward the dock, sir!" panted Greer driving up.
"Where's Caradoc?"
"Yonder." He pointed toward a distant twinkle in the water.
"We must get together—yell to him, warn him!"
The two lads began a strenuous chorus that further used up their exhausted strength. Caradoc responded by a wave of his hand. Then when he understood "sharks" he gathered speed in their direction.
By this time the dock seemed as far away as the schooner, and was in reality probably farther. On the wall of the dock, they could see Hogan's microscopic figure apparently having a fit, against the coppery sky. No doubt from his height he could make out the monsters. Perhaps Hogan could see the great fish shooting along with sinister, exertionless ease toward these clumsy adventurers—a school of trout striking at three awkward beetles.
"Hey, Caradoc! Caradoc!" screamed Madden. "Straight for the schooner!" The American stared around with tense nerves for the little swishes on the surface that betray the attack of a shark.
From something near middle distance, the Englishman raised a hand toward his comrades and motioned them forward.