Vainly young Beverley strove to free himself from the horrible embraces of a healthy young octopus. The creature's protruding eyes and parrot-like beak were plainly visible. Although its body was only about the size of a soup plate, the eight tentacles averaged a yard in length. Each of the legs that had obtained a grip were bringing into play the dozens of suckers with which they were provided, and the net result was that Dick was a prisoner. So precarious was his position, and so strong the tractive powers of the cuttle-fish, that he had to hold on with both hands to prevent himself being drawn off the slippery rock into the sea. Claverhouse's first instinct was to grasp Dick's rifle and fire at the head of the hideous creature; but, thinking that he might possibly put a bullet through the lad's foot--which, owing to the refractive qualities of the water, was quite feasible--he whipped out his knife. Leaning over the edge, he struck hard and deep. The keen steel sunk to the hilt with hardly any perceptible resistance, fairly between the vicious-looking eyes. Then, even as Claverhouse was in the act of withdrawing the blade, two tentacles attached themselves firmly to his hand, at the same time binding it to the foot of the now thoroughly-scared Dick. The unexpected jerk wellnigh capsized Claverhouse. Resisting the impulse to hack blindly, he withdrew the knife with his left hand and prepared to sever the tentacles one by one. It was no easy matter. Not only was there a danger that the sharp steel might cut either his hand or Dick's foot, but the octopus, upon receiving the stab, had liberated a quantity of black fluid that, quickly spreading, made it almost impossible to locate the slimy quivering arms. But the octopus had already received more than it bargained for. The discharge of the inky fluid--nature's counterpart to a smoke-screen--was a preliminary move to making a strategic retreat. Almost as suddenly as the attack developed, the suckers relaxed their grip, and the cuttle-fish withdrew to render first aid to a deep but by no means vital injury to its anatomy. The two victims to the tremendous suction exercised by the octopus's tentacles regained their feet, somewhat ruefully contemplating the livid marks left by their late antagonist. "Thanks, awfully, Claverhouse," exclaimed Dick. "I owe you one for that." "Enter it in the book, then," rejoined the ex-R.A.F. officer, with grim jocularity. "Hope the occasion won't arise for you to call quits." He quizzically regarded his youthful companion, gauging his physical inconveniences by his own. "S'pect you've had enough of the beach to-day," he continued. "If I were you, I'd go on board and get something for that ankle of yours. A real Futurist picture, I call it." Dick decided otherwise. "I'm not going to spoil a day's sport for the sake of a smarting ankle," he protested. "It's roast pork for to-morrow's dinner, and pork I mean to get. I'm all right; I am really."