r ... five ... four ... three ... two ... one ...
_now!_

With all his might he drove the harpoon downward, straight for its mark.
There was a tremendous flurry, and down went the fish, leaving a trail
of blood.

"Got him that time! Right through the shoulder! Over with that warp and
barrel, Filippo!"

The Italian obeyed, his eyes wide as saucers. Soon the coils of the
fifty-fathom lobster-warp had straightened out in the wake of the
terrified fugitive, and the red buoy danced off over the wave-crests.

"He's up to you, Perce!" shouted Jim. "Go after him! Only be sure to
remember what I told you coming out. Keep your eye on the barrel! Haul
it aboard as soon as you can, and coil in the warp. Don't get snarled up
in it if he starts running again."

Percy drew the dory alongside and jumped in. Meanwhile the harpoon staff
was dragged aboard by the line attached to it, the pole-iron having
pulled out of the socket in the dart when the fish was struck. Jim stuck
on a fresh dart, attached to another warp and buoy, and was ready for a
second strike.

"Pass Percy that lance, Filippo!" he ordered.

"He may need it to keep off the sharks."

The Italian handed to Whittington a short, stout pole, on its end a
two-foot iron rod, flattened to a point shaped like a tablespoon, and
filed to razor sharpness. Percy set out in pursuit of the red barrel,
now almost two hundred yards to starboard.

"Another fin to port!" hailed Budge; and the _Barracouta_ sheered off in
quest of a second prize.

For the first few minutes, though Percy rowed his prettiest, he could
not hold his own with the moving barrel. Each glance over his shoulder
showed that it was farther away. He bent stoutly to his oars. The sloop
was heading in the opposite direction, and the distance between them
widened rapidly. The wind had veered still further to the east and the
fog hung more thickly on the horizon.

The barrel was nearer. At last he had begun to gain on it. He rowed with
renewed vigor. Either the fish was tiring out or had stopped swimming
altogether. Presently the dory bumped against the keg.

Pulling in his oars and dropping them over the thwarts, he sprang
forward and gaffed the buoy. A moment later he had lifted it aboard and
was pulling in the warp.

The first ten feet came over the gunwale without any resistance; then he
had to surge against the sag of a dead weight. The fish had either given
up the ghost or was too exhausted to struggle