stantly the struggles grew more violent, while the sea was dyed a deep crimson.
"Good! he's struck!" cried several of the crew. "Shall we haul him in, captain?"
"No; hold the line, that's enough—he's not dead yet, and we don't want him to smash anything more," was the answer. "Ah, he's free of the yawl now! There he goes! Hold hard, all of you, or he'll pull you overboard!"
The men held "hard" as ordered, and the sawfish left the stern of the Columbia only to dart forward towards the bow. Then it went back and forth, hitting the line with its saw, but failing to break it. But the movements grew weaker and weaker, and at last ceased utterly, and then the great fish turned over on its back, and the fight was over.
"He's dead," muttered Tom Grandon. "But where are Russell and Striker?"
"Perhaps the sawfish struck 'em and killed 'em," suggested the boatswain.
As he spoke he caught sight of Olan Oleson, who had not gone swimming, but had continued to chew his quid in sullen silence. An evil smile of satisfaction lit up the Norwegian's face, much to Cal Vincent's disgust. "He wouldn't like anything better
