“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 else.  With a screwing backward pull he wrenched his sword out of the feeler, which seemed hardly to notice the wound.  In the same instant another feeler snatched at him, for Mr. Inkmaker, you know, had ten tentacles, every one of them spoiling for a fight.  It got only a slight hold, however, and Little Sword, whose strength was now something amazing, tore himself clear with a great livid, bleeding, burning patch on his side.

“And now, raging mad though he was, a gleam of sense flashed into his brain.  He saw that it was not much use stabbing those tough tentacles.  Lurching forward as if to stand on his head he shot straight downward, and drove his sword full length into one of those dreadful eyes.