THE SHARK
Steve’s feet were on the plank before the meaning of the words stung
into his consciousness. As he ran, his startled gaze swept over the
glinting water and for an instant his blood froze. Beyond the struggling
Cavanaugh, but much nearer to him than the latter was to shore,
something thrust up above the water—something thin, triangular, erect,
dull gray in color, that cut through the little waves with swift,
smooth, gliding ease.
To Haddon it seemed as if the plank slid backward under his feet. His
dive was purely instinctive but it was a fine one, wide and shallow,
that carried him well out. As he shot to the surface he almost collided
with Ted Hinckley, but he was quite unconscious of the other’s nearness.
Out of that numbed daze of horror and dismay but one thought, one
motive, rose to dominate him. He must reach Cavanaugh before the shark.
What he could do then he did not know. But as he tore through the water
with that powerful overhand stroke which had won him many a race, his
sturdy self-control began slowly to return. Little by little scraps of
things came back to him, things he had read and heard, some of them part
of that very discussion on the beach so short a time ago. Noise! That
was the thing. Sharks were afraid of noises. If he could only reach
Cavvy in time there might be a chance—
His hands struck the water with an even, rythmical slap-slap. Though he
had not slackened his stroke, it seemed as if he were merely crawling.
The temptation to increase his speed was almost irresistible, but he
conquered it by deliberate effort. Already he was breathing hard, and he
knew that unless he kept back some of his strength he would be helpless
at the crucial moment.
At almost every third stroke his dripping face flashed up out of the
water and his desperate gaze searched the wide expanse for a sight of
that ominous fin. Twice he found it; once circling off to the left of
where Cavanaugh was swimming, whereat he was thrilled with hope that the
creature had abandoned the pursuit. But the next time it was cutting
through the ripples straight toward Cavvy, and the sight made Haddon
throw caution to the winds.
With every remaining ounce of strength he lunged forward. His muscles
ached, his lungs were bursting. But still he managed to send his weary
body sizzling through the water at a racing speed. Then Cavanaugh’s face
flashed up before him, strained, white, panic-stricken, and he slowed
down.
“Keep on, old man,” he gasped. “Go straight ahead. I’ll stay—”
He did not finish. Already Cavvy had passed him and was laboring
shoreward. Steve gulped in the precious air, took a few long strokes
forward and stopped with a sudden gasp. The fin had disappeared!
The moments that followed were like nothing that he had ever known. Cold
horror gripped him by the throat and choked him—that horror of the
unknown which is so potent and so paralyzing. The shark had dived and
was swimming under water. At any moment he might feel—
For an instant he came close to screaming wildly, to beating the water
with that mad frenzy which comes to drowning men. But just in time his
teeth dug cruelly into his under lip and he jerked himself back into a
semblance of sanity. And then he began to shout and beat the water, but
with a set purpose. Noise was what the creature dreaded. He could not
hope to outswim the monster, but in this fashion he might hold it off
till Cavanaugh was safe, and perhaps himself.
Ceasing his clamor he swam shoreward a dozen strokes and then paused
again to splash and shout. Again and again he did this, and each time it
was harder to make that deliberate pause. He was possessed by a panicky
desire to speed ahead, trusting to his swiftness. Once he did let
himself go and swam perhaps a score of strokes without stopping. When he
finally forced himself to halt and glanced back over one shoulder, he
seemed to glimpse under the water not a dozen yards away, a great
gray-blue shape that struck terror to his soul. He splashed frantically
and shouted hoarsely, and the thing slid away from his vision. But he
knew it was there, lurking, waiting for a chance, and the remnants of
his courage began to drain. Six strokes was all he dared to take now,
and even those were halting and full of dread.
He had lost all track by this time of Cavvy; he did not even know how
near or far he was himself from shore. Presently he saw the creature
again, nearer this time. As he strove to shout his voice seemed a mere
croak; there was scarcely strength in his numbed arms to lash the
water.... A sudden splash near him brought a strangled sob to his lips;
the touch of something against his body made him cringe.
“All right, Steve,” said a voice in his ear. “Just let yourself go.”
With a long-drawn, sobbing sigh, the boy’s weary muscles relaxed and his
eyes closed. He was vaguely conscious of being propelled swiftly through
the water, of the clamor of shrill voices, of a constant, irregular
splashing all around him. Presently his dragging feet touched bottom and
he made an instinctive effort to stand erect. But now there was a
muscular arm about him which not only held him up but urged him forward.
Finally he felt himself lowered gently to the sand and a moment later he
opened his eyes.
Stripped to the waist and dripping wet, Mr. Wendell was bending over
him. As he met Steve’s glance, his lips curved in a curious smile that
somehow thrilled the boy. There was pride in it, tribute, appreciation,
but when the man spoke his voice was low and matter-of-fact.
“Better lie still for a minute or so,” he said quietly. “You’re about
all in.”
Steve nodded and his glance wandered over the beach. It was thronged
with boys, all talking excitedly and many of them still hurling missiles
at the water. A sudden thought struck him.
“Did Cavvy—” he began, raising his eyes. And then he stopped.
The scoutmaster had moved aside; it was Cavanaugh who stood beside him
holding some garments in his hands. His face was drawn and haggard, and
in his eyes was a look which neither Haddon nor anyone else had ever
seen there.
“Steve!” he said at length, in a low, uneven voice. “I—I—” He paused,
his lips trembling. Then his jaw squared. “I’m a beast, Steve, a perfect
beast!” he went on rapidly. “I’ve been a beast from—from the very first.
You’re— When I think of what a chum you might have been, and I was fool
enough— You’ll never want to—to have anything to do with me again, but I
had to tell you—”
“Don’t!” Haddon sat up abruptly. His physical weariness had suddenly
left him. All the regret and longing and mental soreness of the
afternoon had vanished. “Why can’t we—we just forget all that and—”
He paused. A sudden flash like sunlight swept into Cavvy’s face, wiping
away the haggard lines. His eyes met Haddon’s longingly, incredulously.
“You don’t mean you’d ever—”
Steve laughed happily.
“Why not?” he asked.
Cavanaugh made no answer in words, but impulsively his hand went out and
caught Steve’s. To the onlooker it seemed as if he were merely helping
the other fellow to his feet, but Haddon knew there was a good deal more
than that in the action. Cavvy’s grip, and the look in his eyes were
both more eloquent than speech. Then Mr. Wendell appeared beside them,
his face puzzled and a little stern.
“Feeling all right again?” he asked Haddon. “That’s fine. Well, I guess
we’d better get back to camp; there seems to be nothing more doing
here.” He turned abruptly to Cavanaugh. “Perhaps you can explain this
business,” he said rather curtly. “I can’t seem to make head or tail out
of what Hinckley and McBride have to say. How did you come to go in over
here when there’s a notice up forbidding it for the present?”