their speed and dexterity, could neither catch him nor escape him.

"But he was getting a little careless. And one day, as he was
sleeping, or basking, some ten feet below the surface, the broad, dark
form of a sawfish arose beneath him and thrust at him with his dreadful
saw. The pleasant idea of the sawfish was to rip up the sleeper's
silver belly. But Little Sword awoke in time to just escape the horrid
attack. He swept off in a short circle, came back with a lightning
rush, and drove his sword full length into the stealthy enemy's
shoulder just behind the gills. The great sawfish, heavy muscled and
slow of movement, made no attempt to defend himself, but plunged
suddenly downward into the gloomy depths where he loved to lie in wait.
After relieving his indignation by a couple more vicious thrusts.
Little Sword realized that he was too small to accomplish anything
against this sneaking and prowling bulk, and shot off to look for a
less dangerous basking place.

"It was soon after this close shave with the sawfish that Little Sword
came once more across the path of the Inkmaker. He--"

But the Babe could contain himself no longer. He had been bursting
with questions for the last ten minutes, and had heroically restrained
himself. But this was too much for him.

"Why, Uncle Andy," he cried. "I thought the Inkmaker was dead. I
thought the barracouta had eaten him up, feelers and eyes and all."

"Oh, you're a lot too particular!" grumbled Uncle Andy. "This was
_another_ Inkmaker, of course. And a very much bigger and more
dangerous one, moreover, as you'll see presently. It was little _he_