, and when her stern
lifted on a wave and she slipped forward she pulled the wretch to the
surface and gave him a moment in which to breathe; but between each lift
the stern fell, and while the bow lazily climbed the next wave the line
slacked and he sank beneath.

I had forgotten the existence of Maud Brewster, and I remembered her with
a start as she stepped lightly beside me. It was her first time on deck
since she had come aboard. A dead silence greeted her appearance.

"What is the cause of the merriment?" she asked.

"Ask Captain Larsen," I answered composedly and coldly, though inwardly
my blood was boiling at the thought that she should be witness to such
brutality.

She took my advice and was turning to put it into execution, when her
eyes lighted on Oofty-Oofty, immediately before her, his body instinct
with alertness and grace as he held the turn of the rope.

"Are you fishing?" she asked him.

He made no reply. His eyes, fixed intently on the sea astern, suddenly
flashed.

"Shark ho, sir!" he cried.

"Heave in! Lively! All hands tail on!" Wolf Larsen shouted, springing
himself to the rope in advance of the quickest.

Mugridge had heard the Kanaka's warning cry and was screaming madly. I
could see a black fin cutting the water and making for him with greater
swiftness than he was being pulled aboard. It was an even toss whether
the shark or we would get him, and it was a matter of moments. When
Mugridge was directly beneath us, the stern descended the slope of a
passing wave, thus giving the advantage to the shark. The fin
disappeared. The belly flashed white in swift upward rush. Almost
equally swift, but not quite, was Wolf Larsen. He threw his strength
into one tremendous jerk. The Cockney's body left the water; so did part
of the shark's. He drew up his legs, and the man-eater seemed no more
than barely to touch one foot, sinking back into the water with a splash.
But at the moment of contact Thomas Mugridge cried out. Then he came in
like a fresh-caught fish on a line, clearing the rail generously and
striking the deck in a heap, on hands and knees, and rolling over.

But a fountain of blood was gushing forth. The right foot was missing,
amputated neatly at the ankle. I looked instantly to Maud Brewster. Her
face was white, her eyes dilated with horror. She was gazing, not at
Thomas Mugridge, but at Wolf Larsen. And he was aware of it, for he
said, with one of his short la