Their eyes are big as saucers, an' they're made just to see things the cuttle-fishes want to kill; an' they've got a hundred arms, with suckin' claws on the ends, an' they jest search an' seek, search an' seek, with them dreadful eyes that ain't got no life but hate an' appetite, an' they stretch out an' feel, stretch out an' feel, with them hundred arms, till they git what they want, an' then they lay hold with all the suckers on them hundred arms, an' clutch an' wind, an' twist an' overlay, till, whether it's a drownin' sailor or a ship, you can't see nothin' but cuttle-fish, an'-- " Jerome stopped working, staring at him.

He was quite pale.

His imagination leaped to a glimpse of that frightful fish.

"An'-- what comes--then ?" he gasped.
"The cuttle-fish--has got a beak," said Ozias.

"By-an'-by there ain't nothin' but cuttle-fish." Jerome saw quite plainly the monster writhing and coiling over a waste of water, and nothing else.
"Look at this town, an' look at Doctor Prescott, an' look at Simon Basset," Ozias went on, coming abruptly from illustration to object, with a vigor of personal spite.