II

And, as if he had not already been in sufficient peril that day, Mr.

Fison went with the boat to point out the exact spot of his adventure.

As the tide was down, it required a considerable detour to reach the

spot, and when at last they came off the ladder-way, the mangled body

had disappeared. The water was now running in, submerging first one slab

of slimy rock and then another, and the four men in the boat—the

workmen, that is, the boatman, and Mr. Fison—now turned their attention

from the bearings off shore to the water beneath the keel.

At first they could see little below them, save a dark jungle of

laminaria, with an occasional darting fish. Their minds were set on

adventure, and they expressed their disappointment freely. But presently

they saw one of the monsters swimming through the water seaward, with a

curious rolling motion that suggested to Mr. Fison the spinning roll of

a captive balloon. Almost immediately after, the waving streamers of

laminaria were extraordinarily perturbed, parted for a moment, and three

of these beasts became darkly visible, struggling for what was probably

some fragment of the drowned man. In a moment the copious olive-green

ribbons had poured again over this writhing group.

At that all four men, greatly excited, began beating the water with oars

and shouting, and immediately they saw a tumultuous movement among the

weeds. They desisted, to see more clearly, and as soon as the water was

smooth, they saw, as it seemed to them, the whole sea bottom among the

weeds set with eyes.

“Ugly swine!” cried one of the men. “Why, there’s dozens!”

And forthwith the things began to rise through the water about them. Mr.

Fison has since described to the writer this startling eruption out of

the waving laminaria meadows. To him it seemed to occupy a considerable

time, but it is probable that really it was an affair of a few seconds

only. For a time nothing but eyes, and then he speaks of tentacles

streaming out and parting the weed fronds this way and that. Then these

things, growing larger, until at last the bottom was hidden by their

intercoiling forms, and the tips of tentacles rose darkly here and there

into the air above the swell of the waters.

One came up boldly to the side of the boat, and, clinging to this with

three of its sucker-set tentacles, threw four others over the gunwale,

as if with an intention either of oversetting the boat or of clambering

into it. Mr. Fison at once caught up the boathook, and, jabbing

furiously at the soft tentacles, forced it to desist. He was struck in

the back and almost pitched overboard by the boatman, who was using his

oar to resist a similar attack on the other side of the boat. But the

tentacles on either side at once relaxed their hold at this, slid out of

sight, and splashed into the water.

“We’d better get out of this,” said Mr. Fison, who was trembling

violently. He went to the tiller, while the boatman and one of the

workmen seated themselves and began rowing. The other workman stood up

in the fore part of the boat, with the boathook, ready to strike any

more tentacles that might appear. Nothing else seems to have been said.

Mr. Fison had expressed the common feeling beyond amendment. In a

hushed, scared mood, with faces white and drawn, they set about escaping

from the position into which they had so recklessly blundered.

But the oars had scarcely dropped into the water before dark, tapering,

serpentine ropes had bound them, and were about the rudder; and creeping

up the sides of the boat with a looping motion came the suckers again.

The men gripped their oars and pulled, but it was like trying to move a

boat in a floating raft of weeds. “Help here!” cried the boatman, and

Mr. Fison and the second workman rushed to help lug at the oar.

Then the man with the boathook—his name was Ewan, or Ewen—sprang up with

a curse, and began striking downward over the side, as far as he could

reach, at the bank of tentacles that now clustered along the boat’s

bottom. And, at the same time, the two rowers stood up to get a better

purchase for the recovery of their oars. The boatman handed his to Mr.

Fison, who lugged desperately, and, meanwhile, the boatman opened a big

clasp-knife, and, leaning over the side of the boat, began hacking at

the spiring arms upon the oar shaft.

Mr. Fison, staggering with the quivering rocking of the boat, his teeth

set, his breath coming short, and the veins starting on his hands as he

pulled at his oar, suddenly cast his eyes seaward. And there, not fifty

yards off, across the long rollers of the incoming tide, was a large

boat standing in towards them, with three women and a little child in

it. A boatman was rowing, and a little man in a pink-ribboned straw hat

and whites stood in the stern, hailing them. For a moment, of course,

Mr. Fison thought of help, and then he thought of the child. He

abandoned his oar forthwith, threw up his arms in a frantic gesture, and

screamed to the party in the boat to keep away “for God’s sake!” It says

much for the modesty and courage of Mr. Fison that he does not seem to

be aware that there was any quality of heroism in his action at this

juncture. The oar he had abandoned was at once drawn under, and

presently reappeared floating about twenty yards away.

At the same moment Mr. Fison felt the boat under him lurch violently,

and a hoarse scream, a prolonged cry of terror from Hill, the boatman,

caused him to forget the party of excursionists altogether. He turned,

and saw Hill crouching by the forward rowlock, his face convulsed with

terror, and his right arm over the side and drawn tightly down. He gave

now a succession of short, sharp cries, “Oh! oh! oh!—oh!” Mr. Fison

believes that he must have been hacking at the tentacles below the

water-line, and have been grasped by them, but, of course, it is quite

impossible to say now certainly what had happened. The boat was heeling

over, so that the gunwale was within ten inches of the water, and both

Ewan and the other labourer were striking down into the water, with oar

and boathook, on either side of Hill’s arm. Mr. Fison instinctively

placed himself to counterpoise them.

Then Hill, who was a burly, powerful man, made a strenuous effort, and

rose almost to a standing position. He lifted his arm, indeed, clean out

of the water. Hanging to it was a complicated tangle of brown ropes; and

the eyes of one of the brutes that had hold of him, glaring straight and

resolute, showed momentarily above the surface. The boat heeled more and

more, and the green-brown water came pouring in a cascade over the side.

Then Hill slipped and fell with his ribs across the side, and his arm

and the mass of tentacles about it splashed back into the water. He

rolled over; his boot kicked Mr. Fison’s knee as that gentleman rushed

forward to seize him, and in another moment fresh tentacles had whipped

about his waist and neck, and after a brief, convulsive struggle, in

which the boat was nearly capsized, Hill was lugged overboard. The boat

righted with a violent jerk that all but sent Mr. Fison over the other

side, and hid the struggle in the water from his eyes.

He stood staggering to recover his balance for a moment, and as he did

so, he became aware that the struggle and the inflowing tide had carried

them close upon the weedy rocks again. Not four yards off a table of

rock still rose in rhythmic movements above the in-wash of the tide. In

a moment Mr. Fison seized the oar from Ewan, gave one vigorous stroke,

then, dropping it, ran to the bows and leapt. He felt his feet slide

over the rock, and, by a frantic effort, leapt again towards a further

mass. He stumbled over this, came to his knees, and rose again.

“Look out!” cried some one, and a large drab body struck him. He was

knocked flat into a tidal pool by one of the workmen, and as he went

down he heard smothered, choking cries, that he believed at the time

came from Hill. Then he found himself marvelling at the shrillness and

variety of Hill’s voice. Some one jumped over him, and a curving rush of

foamy water poured over him, and passed. He scrambled to his feet,

dripping, and, without looking seaward, ran as fast as his terror would

let him shoreward. Before him, over the flat space of scattered rocks,

stumbled the two workmen—one a dozen yards in front of the other.

He looked over his shoulder at last, and, seeing that he was not

pursued, faced about. He was astonished. From the moment of the rising

of the cephalopods out of the water, he had been acting too swiftly to

fully comprehend his actions. Now it seemed to him as if he had suddenly

jumped out of an evil dream.

For there were the sky, cloudless and blazing with the afternoon sun,

the sea, weltering under its pitiless brightness, the soft creamy foam

of the breaking water, and the low, long, dark ridges of rock. The

righted boat floated, rising and falling gently on the swell about a

dozen yards from shore. Hill and the monsters, all the stress and tumult

of that fierce fight for life, had vanished as though they had never

been.

Mr. Fison’s heart was beating violently; he was throbbing to the

finger-tips, and his breath came deep.

There was something missing. For some seconds he could not think clearly

enough what this might be. Sun, sky, sea, rocks—what was it? Then he

remembered the boatload of excursionists. It had vanished. He wondered

whether he had imagined it. He turned, and saw the two workmen standing

side by side under the projecting masses of the tall pink cliffs. He

hesitated whether he should make one last attempt to save the man Hill.

His physical excitement seemed to desert him suddenly, and leave him

aimless and helpless. He turned shoreward, stumbling and wading towards

his two companions.

He looked back again, and there were now two boats floating, and the one

farthest out at sea pitched clumsily, bottom upward.