In the center of the flock of birds he stopped, poised. The whirling of the terns had become more agitated and their hoarse shrieks betrayed their terror. Then, it seemed that the intruder had picked out a victim, for with a sudden swirl he darted at a tern that had wheeled up from the surface of the ocean a minute before. The tern, light and agile, dodged and sped hither and hither, gliding, mounting, doubling, with the dark stranger ever behind him, apparently eager to tear him to pieces. At last, believing that the vengeful creature behind him could not be shaken off, in one last final effort to escape, the tern lightened his flight by disgorging the contents of his gullet. Instantly, with a movement so quick that Perry was hard set to follow it, the pirate caught in midair the fish that the tern had dropped. Pouncing upon it from above, like a falling thunderbolt, his powerful bill seized the fish. A quick upward jerk of the head sent the silver thing gleaming above him, and, as it whirled, he caught it in the proper position for swallowing, head first. Then, gliding back toward the middle of the flock, the frigatebird poised, ready to pounce upon the meal that the next tern would catch. “The grafter!” exclaimed Perry, when the whole plan was clear to him. “Why doesn’t he catch fish for himself?” “He cannot, he cannot,” Antoine answered. “He is made to live that way. He cannot dive, no, nor can he plunge into the water. Some one else must catch fish for him, or he will die.” “That’s the limit!” Antoine shrugged his shoulders. “Man is just as bad,” he said. “The cow makes milk for the calf, Man takes it; the bee makes honey, Man takes it; what’s the difference?” “I suppose it’s so, when you put it that way, we do manage to sneak a lot of stuff that animals have planned for their own little savings. It seems a shame, somehow, and yet it seems right, too.” “It is Nature’s law, yes,” the young Belgian replied, “always the more powerful creature preys upon the less.” “It’s a good thing,” said Perry, thoughtfully, “that the frigate-bird isn’t any bigger. A five-foot span is big enough, anyway. Suppose he were as big as an albatross, Antoine, why, the terns would never get anything to eat at all.” “If he were as big as an albatross,” retorted the other, “the little birds could dodge him.” “Isn’t the albatross about the biggest thing that ever flew?” asked the boy. Antoine made a gesture of negation. “No, no,” he said, “he is the biggest bird, the biggest thing with feathers that has ever been, but the Pteranodon—the Pteranodon was more than half as big again and would look twice as big.” “Pteranodon,” said the boy thoughtfully. “Let’s see, Antoine, that was some kind of lizardbird, wasn’t it?” “Not a bird, not a bird,” replied the other, “but it was a lizard that flew.” “Didn’t it have wings?” “No, no, it had aëroplanes,” was the astonishing answer. “Hold out your hand!” Wondering what was coming, the boy did so.