He cowered at the opposite
end of the boat and had said nothing for a long time. Finally he opened
a conversation with a person of whose presence I had not been conscious.
"Jim," he said, "come, give me a piece."
"Jim who?" I asked. "Piece of what? Where is he?"
"Jim Woodbury," he answered, "don't you see him? There he is, hiding
under that oil jacket. He's been there over half an hour, eating pie,
and he won't give me any."
I tried to laugh him out of his delusion, but the thing was real to him.
Soon he jumped up and said: "I'm going on board; I'm tired of staying
out here."
"How will you get there?" I asked.
"Walk," he answered, "the water ain't deep," and he started to get
overboard.
I caught him and pulled him back into the boat, not any too soon, for if
he had gone overboard, the sharks would probably have gotten him, for
they were not very far away. Every now and then I had seen their fins
cutting the surface of the water, as they patrolled back and forth,
waiting their time, or ours, as if they knew that it was only a question
of time.
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