Even my Viking marveled full as much at those Pilot fish as he would have marveled at the Pentecost.
But perhaps a little incident, occurring about this period, will best illustrate the matter in hand.
We were gliding along, hardly three knots an hour, when my comrade, who had been dozing over the gunwale, suddenly started to his feet, and pointed out an immense Shovel-nosed Shark, less than a boat's length distant, and about half a fathom beneath the surface.

A lance was at once snatched from its place; and true to his calling, Jarl was about to dart it at the fish, when, interested by the sight of its radiant little scouts, I begged him to desist.
One of them was right under the shark, nibbling at his ventral fin; another above, hovering about his dorsal appurtenance; one on each flank; and a frisking fifth pranking about his nose, seemingly having something to say of a confidential nature.

They were of a bright, steel-blue color, alternated with jet black stripes; with glistening bellies of a silver-white.

Clinging to the back of the shark, were four or five Remoras, or sucking-fish; snaky parasites, impossible to remove from whatever they adhere to, without destroying their lives.
The Remora has little power in swimming; hence its sole locomotion is on the backs of larger fish.

Leech-like, it sticketh closer than a false brother in prosperity; closer than a beggar to the benevolent; closer than Webster to the Constitution.