r this close shave with the sawfish that Little Sword
came once more across the path of the Inkmaker. He--"

But the Babe could contain himself no longer. He had been bursting
with questions for the last ten minutes, and had heroically restrained
himself. But this was too much for him.

"Why, Uncle Andy," he cried. "I thought the Inkmaker was dead. I
thought the barracouta had eaten him up, feelers and eyes and all."

"Oh, you're a lot too particular!" grumbled Uncle Andy. "This was
_another_ Inkmaker, of course. And a very much bigger and more
dangerous one, moreover, as you'll see presently. It was little _he_
had to fear from the barracoutas. In fact, he had just fixed one of
his longer tentacles on a vigorous four-foot barracouta, and was slowly
drawing him down within reach of the rest of the feelers, when Little
Sword's shining eyes alighted upon the struggle.

"This particular Inkmaker was crouching in a sort of shallow basin
between rocks which were densely fringed with bright-striped weeds,
starry madrepores, and sea-anemones of every lovely color. Disturbed
by the struggle, however, the madrepores and anemones were nervously
closing up their living blooms. The Inkmaker, who always managed
somehow to have his own colors match his surroundings, so that his
hideous form would not show too plainly and frighten his victims away,
was now of a dirty pinkish-yellow, blotched and striped with
purplish-brown; and his tentacles were like a bunch of striped snakes.
Only his eyes never changed. They lay unwinking, two huge round lenses
of terrible and intense blackness, staring upwards from the base of the
writhing tentacles."

The Babe shuddered again, and wished that the beautiful swordfish would
swim away as quickly as possible from the slimy horror. But he
refrained interrupting. It would be dreadful if Uncle Andy should get
annoyed and stop at this critical point!

"When Little Sword saw those long feelers dragging the barracouta
down," went on Uncle Andy, after relighting his pipe, "he darted
forward like a blue flame and jabbed his sword right through the
nearest one."

"Oh, ho!" cried the Babe, forgetting caution. "He remembered how the
barracouta had saved _him_!"

"Not much!" grunted Uncle Andy. "There's no sentiment about a
swordfish, I can tell you. He'd have jabbed the barracouta, and eaten
him, too, just as quick as look, but he hated the Inkmaker, and could
not think of anything e