The fish was swimming at a moderate rate, and the sloop had no trouble in catching up with him. The two stiff fins betrayed him.
[Illustration: LEANING AGAINST THE MAST-HOOP THAT ENCIRCLED HIS WAIST, HE LIFTED THE LONG LANCE AND POISED IT FOR THE BLOW]
"Swordfish all right!" muttered Jim. "Not quite so big as the other one, but too good to lose! Steady, Throppy!"
Foot by foot the _Barracouta's_ bowsprit forged up on their prospective prey. Nobody spoke. Jim's grip on the pine staff tightened; his eye measured the distance to the dull-blue shoulder.
Six inches further ... 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.
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.