“Ugly swine!” cried one of the men.  “Why, there’s dozens!”

And forthwith the things began to rise through the water about them.  Mr. Fison has since described to the writer this startling eruption out of the waving laminaria meadows.  To him it seemed to occupy a considerable time, but it is probable that really it was an affair of a few seconds only.  For a time nothing but eyes, and then he speaks of tentacles streaming out and parting the weed fronds this way and that.  Then these things, growing larger, until at last the bottom was hidden by their intercoiling forms, and the tips of tentacles rose darkly here and there into the air above the swell of the waters.

One came up boldly to the side of the boat, and clinging to this with three of its sucker-set tentacles, threw four others over the gunwale, as if with an intention either of oversetting the boat or of clambering into it.  Mr. Fison at once caught up the boat-hook, and, jabbing furiously at the soft tentacles, forced it to desist.  He was struck in the back and almost pitched overboard by the boatman, who was using his oar to resist a similar attack on the other side of the boat.  But the tentacles on either side at once relaxed their hold, slid out of sight, and splashed into the water.

“We’d better get out of this,” said Mr. Fison, who was trembling violently.  He went to the tiller, while the boatman and one of the workmen seated themselves and began rowing.  The other workman stood up in the fore part of the boat, with the boat-hook, ready to strike any more tentacles that might appear.  Nothing else seems to have been said.  Mr. Fison had expressed the common feeling beyond amendment.  In a hushed, scared mood, with faces white and drawn, they set about escaping from the position into which they had so recklessly blundered.

But the oars had scarcely dropped into the water before dark, tapering, serpentine ropes had bound them, and were about the rudder; and creeping up the sides of the boat with a looping motion came the suckers again.  The men gripped their oars and pulled, but it was like trying to move a boat in a floating raft of weeds.  “Help here!” cried the boatman, and Mr. Fison and the second workman rushed to help lug at the oar.

Then the man with the boat-hook—­his name was Ewan, or Ewen—­sprang up with a curse and began striking downward over the side, as far as he could reach, at the bank of tentacles that now clustered along the boat’s bottom.  And, at the same time, the two rowers stood up to get a better purchase for the recovery of their oars.  The boatman handed his to Mr. Fison, who lugged desperately, and, meanwhile, the boatman opened a big clasp-knife, and leaning over the side of the boat, began hacking at the spiring arms upon the oar shaft.