One of the fishermen picked up the iron-shod pole the unfortunate man had dropped as he went overboard, and stood ready to cast it at the big fish, which could be seen swirling along in the water, near the swimmer.
“Say!” cried Blake to Joe. “It may seem a heartless thing to do, but why can’t we get some moving pictures of this?”
“We can,” decided his chum. “We can’t help any, and we might as well film it.”
“Come on, then. You hold the camera steady and I’ll turn the handle.”
They had a machine all in readiness, its tripod shortened so that the lens could be brought close to the water.
“He’s dived!” cried one of the men.
“Who—the fish, or Jake?” demanded the captain.
“Jake. He saw the fish coming at him, and he went under. Lucky he did, or he might have been cut in two.”
“Throw that prod; can’t you? I’ll have this gun ready in a minute.”
The captain had pulled from a locker an old-fashioned, double-barreled duck gun.