With measured strokes they swam out toward the horizon of the tropic sea. At length they turned and rested on their backs, luxuriating in the feel of the buoyant water beneath them. The dark outline of the Araby stood up a hundred yards distant. Near them, a lazy turtle, undisturbed by their approach, basked in the sun, his shell aglitter, his broad flappers dipped motionless beneath the surface.
"This is sure great," murmured Tod. "I feel like it'd be fine to be one of those turtles there."
"Yes, it'd be fine to have a shell like that to carry round with you; then you wouldn't get hurt so often."
Tod wondered what sort of shell he meant. The cook's blue eyes gazed up into space; the water dripped from his firm jaw; the dragons on his magnificent pectoral muscles lapped at the water greedily.
"Say, Joe Macaroni, I notice you been bunkin' on deck lately."
Tod gave him a quick look. "Yes; it gets so blamed hot below that I take my blankets up to the fo'c's'le head."
"Yeah. Those rats below been botherin' you?"
Tod flushed.
"Oh, they have. Who's it been? Red Mitchell?"
"Not only him. I was so green when I came aboard. A fellow reads those wonderful sea books, and he thinks that all men aboard ship are noble, brave men of the sea.' " He spoke bitterly. "You learn better."
The Tattooed Man smiled grimly. "Just wait. I'll fix those fo'c's'le bums. I won't have 'em pulling any stuff on the likes o' you, Joe Macaroni."
"Oh, I've managed to get along."
"Sure you have. But I'm going to fix 'em just the same." He paused a moment to let his anger cool. "If you go fightin', you'll have to watch your step. Red's bigger than you—stronger."
"Yes, but I can knock his block off. He's too fresh."
The Tattooed Man grinned delightedly. "Oh-ho! You're a little scrapper, then. Well, I hope you fix him good. But what about Hawkes ? What you been doing to him?"
"Nothing. Why?"
Jarvis paddled gently with outstretched hands. "Well, when the mate looks at a feller like he looks at you—there's trouble in the air. I'd hate to have you in wrong with him, too. You can't never tell with a guy like that. He'd do anything. I know—see? Anything. . . . Well, let's get back."
Lifting his shoulders out of the water, he dove; his heels flashed for a second in the air. Tod saw him swimming submerged in the clear blue depths. Not to be outdone, he did likewise. He came up sputtering, took a deep breath, and gazed toward the ship. The men were clambering into the gig and up the Jacob's ladder. He heard them shouting, but the words were lost in the distance.
The steam pipes evidently were fixed, he thought. By golly, he'd have to hurry back. He dove again into the pellucid depths.
Below the surface he could see plainly. A school of flying fish went racing by, snapping at the tiny squids near the surface. The little molluscs, only an inch across, apparently made delicious eating. Such an easy way to get a meal! Not a dish or pot to clean up afterward. Then the long slender body of a fish at least nine feet long went vaguely swimming past. The upper lobe of its tail waved mistily. It was after the flying fish, of course. That was its dinner. Better than the squids—larger. No dishes .
The great fish swung past again, and he glimpsed green deadly eyes and a wide underslung jaw and mouth. Cold fear clutched his heart. A shark!
With frantic strokes he beat his way to the surface. His eyes dripped with water. The ship seemed in credibly distant. On deck the men waved and shouted; two seamen climbed the ladder. Only one remained in the ship's gig. It was Toppy, standing up and screaming:
"Sharks! Sharks!"
Tod started toward the ship with all the speed he could muster. Jarvis was waiting for him just ahead. "Hurry up," he said quickly. "It ain't so bad. You don't have to worry. Kick yer feet if the swine comes close. He'll leave you alone."
Even while he spoke, Tod saw coming toward them the whisk of a shark's fin. With a little hissing sound it rushed toward them; the gray dorsal fin cut the surface with a knife-like spray. Already Jarvis had seen. He threw his great body to the right between the boy and the approaching shark. In big splashing strokes he swam at Tod's side.
"Kick!" he yelled. "That'll keep him off. The brute must be famished."
Spray rose in a shower of cascades above them. Their arms and legs plunged in and out of the surface. The pursuer turned swiftly; he came driving along even with the cook. Tod, flashing a look across the man at his side, glimpsed a long, dirty gray body, sinister, ugly, murderous.
"You take the ladder," called Jarvis. "I’ll get the gig."
In a stirring instant Tod realized that the man was tempting fortune, making for the gig and leaving the Jacob's ladder, which was nearest, to him. The ship was just ahead now, looming up. The ladder dangled maddeningly in the water. Off to the right lay the gig with Toppy standing upright with an oar in his hands, pushing the boat off the side toward them.
But Tod was already at the rope ladder. Almost overpowered by exhaustion he clung for a moment to the wooden rung swaying in the water. His eyes closed; his breath came thickly. The shouts from above struck his ears like a faint, tumultuous uproar. He pulled himself together and glanced about. Toppy was helping the Tattooed Man into the gig. The shark's fin had disappeared. Where was the beast?
One more breath, he told himself, and then he would climb up. His lungs expanded; he wiped the salt water from his eyes. Suddenly he felt a quick jerk of the ladder. The rung slipped from his hand; it rose swiftly out of reach toward the deck.
A mistake! A mistake! He strained his eyes upward. Among the faces peering, horror-stricken, overside, he saw that of Red Mitchell, triumphant, frightened.
Tod gasped. He was alone in the water with the shark.
The gig! He must make it. He dove, fighting his way through the depths toward the boat. A huge turtle went by with amazing speed; four broad flappers swayed with a rhythmic motion. A flying fish scuttled past. After its prey, the squid? Or was it prey itself of the shark?
Prey! That was what he had become—prey in a shark-infested sea. He breathed out the air in his lungs; the bubbles floated upward. His heart jumped, lost a beat. Coming directly toward him was the long sinister form of the hunter. A cold predatory eye had turned its steadfast gaze on him. Quickly the brute swooped and swung over on its pale gray belly. Its jaw was opening. Its crescent-shaped mouth showed several rows of teeth like saws. Relentless, demonlike, it lunged toward him.
He cut through the surface. Air dashed into his lungs. His feet kicked wildly. He screamed.
Hands reached him. In a flash he was lifted from the water. Exhausted, his breath coming in loud sobs, he sank on a thwart of the gig.
"Hurt?" Jarvis was bending over him.
"No—only scared—I guess."
Toppy grinned in relief. "Blimey, Tom, if yer pictures didn't scare the blarsted shark. He thought as 'ow a two-'eaded dragin was arfter 'im!"
From the deck came cries of welcome from the men.
"That'll do," called Mr. Hawkes. "Come aboard at once. We gotta git under way."
"Yes, sir." Toppy threw the oar in the rowlock at the stern-sheets and sculled to the ladder which again hung limp. "Who in 'ell pulled th' bloomin' ladder awiy?" whispered the little Londoner. "Some blighter on deck—blarst 'is 'ide!"
The Tattooed Man, his splendid height and virile strength accentuated by his proximity to the sallow cockney, held the ropes with an iron grip for Tod to ascend. "Yes, who jerked it up?" As the boy passed him, going up, his deep voice sank to a low, vibrant tone. "Careful now, Joe Macaroni. These sharks here ain't so bad—but look out for those on deck. They're swoopin', belly up."
Tod nodded, strangely moved to a recurring sense of disillusionment. He understood. Oh, those "noble, brave men of the sea"! They had faded as a vision by the night.