A sword-fish having penetrated seven or eight feet into the bottom of
a ship, under the impression that he was quarrelling with a whale, was
unable to draw out of the fight. The sailors annoyed him a good deal,
by pounding with handspikes upon that portion of his horn inside; but
he bore it as bravely as he could, putting the best possible face
upon the matter, until he saw a shark swimming by, of whom he inquired
the probable destination of the ship.
"Italy, I think," said the other, grinning. "I have private reasons
for believing her cargo consists mainly of consumptives."
"Ah!" exclaimed the captive; "Italy, delightful clime of the cerulean
orange--the rosy olive! Land of the night-blooming Jesuit, and the
fragrant _laszarone_! It would be heavenly to run down gondolas in the
streets of Venice! I _must_ go to Italy."
"Indeed you must," said the shark, darting suddenly aft, where he had
caught the gleam of shotted canvas through the blue waters.
But it was fated to be otherwise: some days afterwards the ship and
fish passed over a sunken rock which almost grazed the keel. Then the
two parted company, with mutual expressions of tender regard, and a
report which could be traced by those on board to no trustworthy
source.
The foregoing fable shows that a man of good behaviour need not care
for money, and _vice versâ_.