“In an instant three or four feelers closed upon him.  But they were now thrashing a little aimlessly, so that they did not work well together.  The monster was confused by that terrible, searching trust.  Little Sword was hampered by the feelers clutching at him, but he still had room to use his weapon.  With all his weight and quivering strength he drove his sword again deep into the Inkmaker’s head, twisting and wrenching it sideways as he drew it out.  Other tentacles closed over him, but seemed to have lost their clutching power through the attack upon the source of their nervous energy.  The struggling barracouta was drawn down with them, but blindly; and the water was now utterly black with the rank ink which the monster was pumping forth.

“For a few moments all was one boiling convulsion of fish and tentacles and ink, Little Sword simply stabbing and stabbing at the soft mass under his weapon.  Then, all at once, the tentacles relaxed, falling away as slack as seaweed.  The barracouta, nearly spent, swam off without even waiting to say ‘Thank you.’  And Little Sword coming to his senses as he realized his victory, rose slowly out of the area of the ink cloud.  He knew that the Inkmaker’s flesh was very good to eat, and he merely waited for the cloud to settle before making a meal which would completely satisfy his vengeance.”

The Babe was thoughtful for a few moments after Uncle Andy stopped speaking.  At length he said positively: 

“I’m glad we don’t have any Inkmakers, either, in the lake.”

“Umph!” grunted Uncle Andy, “there are lots of things we don’t have that we can very well do without.”

CHAPTER V

ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP

Casting his flies across the eddying mouth of one of those cold streams which feed the crystal bosom of Silverwater, Uncle Andy had landed a magnificent pink-bellied trout—­five pounds, if an ounce!

“Hi, but isn’t he a whopper?” he cried exultantly, holding up his prize for the inspection of the Babe, who had been watching the struggle breathlessly.

“A—­whopper?” repeated the Babe doubtfully.  His idea of a whopper was something that objectionable little boys have been known to tell in order to get themselves out of a scrape.  No full-fledged fisherman as yet, he did not see what it could have to do with a trout.

Uncle Andy seemed to divine his difficulty.

“I mean,” he explained, “isn’t he a big one? Tremendous?”

At this again the Babe looked doubtful.  The fish was certainly a very beautiful one; but to the Babe’s eyes it did not seem in any way remarkable for size.  Yet he did not like to appear to disagree with Uncle Andy.

“Is it big?” he inquired politely.  “Bill says there’s some fish bigger than a house.”

Uncle Andy looked at him askance.

“Seems to me,” said he, “you’re mighty hard to please to-day.  And, anyhow, Bill talks nonsense.  They’re not fish, those monsters he was telling you about.  They’re whales.”