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Anyhow, it swum'd slowly along till it cotched sight o' Skinclip, when it went at him, an' looked at the back of his helmet in great astonishment, an' appeared to smell it, but evidently it could make nothin' of it. Then it looked all down his back with an equal want of appreciation. Arter that it came round to the front, and looked straight in at Skinclip's bull's-eye!
It was a beautiful sort o' submarine garden, so to speak, an' long Tom Skinclip was so fond o' flowers an' gardens nat'rally, that he forgot hisself, an' went wanderin' about what he called the `submarine groves' till they thought he must have gone mad. They could see him quite plain, you see, from the boat, an' they watched him while he wandered about.
Skinclip he putt down his head, an' the ripslang made five or six charges at the helmet without much effect. Then it changed its tactics, turned on its side, wriggled under the helmet, an' looked in at Skinclip with one of its glarin' eyes close to the glass. At the same time the lobster gave him a tree-mendious tug behind. This was more than Skinclip could stand.
They see'd him jump round, seize the life-line, an' give it four deadly pulls, but his comrades paid no attention to it. The lobster gave him another tug, an' the ripslang prepared for another charge. It seemed to have got some extra spikes set up in its wrath, for its whole body was bristlin' more or less by this time. "Again Skinclip tugged like a maniac at the line.
"After a time long Tom Skinclip he sat down on a rock an' wiped the perspiration off his brow at least he tried to do it, which set the men in the boat all off in roars of laughter, for, d'ee see, Skinclip was an absent sort of a feller, an' used to do strange things.
I'm safe," returned the Irishman, carelessly; "I'd putt Molly betwain us, an' sure ye'd have to come over her dead body before ye'd git at me. It wasn't you, was it, David," continued Rooney, with sudden earnestness, "that got knocked over by a blast at the works in Ringwall harbour two or three years ago?" "No, it warn't me," responded Maxwell; "it was long Tom Skinclip.
They supped off it the game night, and long Tom Skinclip, who owned an over strong appetite, had a bad fit of indisgestion in consikence." Once more we beg our reader to accompany us to sea out into the thick darkness, over the wild waves, far from the abodes of man. There, one night in December, a powerful steamer did battle with a tempest.
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