Here, then, in our midst, and to be seen by all who ask permission to inspect it, is, and has long been, a limb of a great cephalopod capable of upsetting a boat, or of hauling a man out of her, or of clutching one engaged in scraping a ship's side, and dragging him under water, as described by the old master-mariner Magnus Dens. The tough, supple tentacles, shot forth with lightning rapidity, would be long enough to reach him at a distance of a dozen yards, and strong enough to drag him within the grasp of the eight shorter arms, a helpless victim to the mandibles of a beak sufficiently powerful to tear him in pieces and crush some of his smaller bones. For, once within that dreadful embrace, his escape, unaided, would be impossible. The clinging power of this _Plectoteuthis_ is so enormously augmented by the additional surface given by the expanded folds to the under side of the arms, that I doubt if even one of the smaller whales, such as the "White Whale," or the "Pilot Whale," could extricate itself from their combined hold, if those eight supple, clammy, adhesive arms, each 9 feet long, and 5 inches in diameter at the base on the flat under surface, and armed with a battery of 2400 suckers, were once fairly lapped around it. Ought it to surprise us, then, that an uneducated seafaring population, such as the fishermen of Fridrichstad, mentioned by Pontoppidan, absolutely ignorant of the habits and affinities, and even unacquainted with the real external form of such a creature, should exaggerate its dimensions and invest it with mystery? All that they knew of it was that whilst their friends and neighbours, whom we will call Eric Paulsen, Hans Ohlsen, and Olaf Bruhn were out fishing one calm day, a shapeless "something" rose just above the surface of the tranquil sea not far from their boat. They could see that there was much more of its bulk under water, but how far it extended they could not ascertain. Mistrusting its appearance, and with foreboding of danger, they were about to get up their anchor, when, suddenly, from thirty feet away, a rope was shot on board which fastened itself on Hans; he was dragged from amongst them towards the strange floating mass; there was a commotion; from the foaming sea upreared themselves, as it seemed to Eric and Olaf, several writhing serpents, which twined themselves around Hans; and as they gazed, helpless, in horror and bewilderment, the monster sank, and with a mighty swirl the waters closed for ever over their unfortunate companion. The men would naturally hasten home, and describe the dreadful incident--their imagination excited by its mysterious nature; the tale would spread through the district, losing nothing by repetition, and within a week the fabled Kraken would be the result.