But he
refrained interrupting. It would be dreadful if Uncle Andy should get
annoyed and stop at this critical point!
"When Little Sword saw those long feelers dragging the barracouta
down," went on Uncle Andy, after relighting his pipe, "he darted
forward like a blue flame and jabbed his sword right through the
nearest one."
"Oh, ho!" cried the Babe, forgetting caution. "He remembered how the
barracouta had saved _him_!"
"Not much!" grunted Uncle Andy. "There's no sentiment about a
swordfish, I can tell you. He'd have jabbed the barracouta, and eaten
him, too, just as quick as look, but he hated the Inkmaker, and could
not think of anything else. With a screwing backward pull he wrenched
his sword out of the feeler, which seemed hardly to notice the wound.
In the same instant another feeler snatched at him, for Mr. Inkmaker,
you know, had ten tentacles, every one of them spoiling for a fight.
It got only a slight hold, however, and Little Sword, whose strength
was now something amazing, tore himself clear with a great livid,
bleeding, burning patch on his side.
"And now, raging mad though he was, a gleam of sense flashed into his
brain. He saw that it was not much use stabbing those tough tentacles.
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