But it feeds upon what it clings to; its feelers having a direct communication with the esophagus.
The shark swam sluggishly; creating no sign of a ripple, but ever and, anon shaking his Medusa locks, writhing and curling with horrible life.

Now and then, the nimble Pilot fish darted from his side--this way and that--mostly toward our boat; but previous to taking a fresh start ever returning to their liege lord to report progress.
A thought struck me.

Baiting a rope's end with a morsel of our almost useless salt beef, I suffered it to trail in the sea.

Instantly the foremost scout swam toward it; hesitated; paused; but at last advancing, briskly snuffed at the line, and taking one finical little nibble, retreated toward the shark.

Another moment, and the great Tamerlane himself turned heavily about; pointing his black, cannon-like nose directly toward our broadside.