There would seem, indeed, to be a sort of perpetual and hereditary war waged between sailors and sharks, like that said to exist between the Esquimaux and the Indians of North America, where, as each of the belligerents is under the full belief that every death, whether natural or violent, is caused by the machinations of the other side, there is no hope of peace between them, as long as the high conflicting parties shall be subject to the laws of mortality.
In like manner, I fear, that in all future times, as in all times past, when poor Jack falls overboard in Madras roads, or in Port Royal harbour, he will be crunched between the shark's quadruple or quintuple rows of serrated teeth, with as merciless a spirit of enjoyment as Jack himself can display.

Certainly, I nave never seen the savage part of our nature peep out more clearly than upon these occasions, when a whole ship's company, captain, officers, and young gentlemen inclusive, shout in triumphant exultation over the body of a captive shark, floundering in impotent rage on the poop or forecastle.
The capture always affords high and peculiar sport, for it is one in which every person on board sympathises, and, to a certain extent, takes a share.

Like a fox-chase, it is ever new, and draws within its vortex every description of person.

Even the monkey, if there be one on board, takes a vehement interest in the whole progress of this wild scene.

I remember once observing Jacko running backwards and forwards along the after-part of the poop hammock-netting, grinning, screaming, and chattering at such a rate, that, as it was nearly calm, he was heard all over the decks.
"What's the matter with you, Master Mona ?" said the quarter-master; for the animal came from Teneriffe, and preserved his Spanish cognomen.