My friend was beginning to tell me something about the porpoise, or _marsouin_, the smallest species of the genus, when Jean-Marie Le Floch put an end to the scientific discourse by a sudden shout. He was positive, he declared, that he had just seen a dolphin jumping out of the water about five hundred yards ahead of us! "Are you quite certain about it, _mon garçon_?" said Desmond, eagerly grasping his gun. "Did you really?" "_Tenez, m'sieur!_" replied the lad. "There! there! Did you see it?" [Illustration: A YACHT CHASING A SCHOOL OF DOLPHINS. _From a Photograph._] Sure enough, a black object had just shot out of the water, disappearing again so quickly that I almost thought I had made a mistake. Not so my friend. He had seen enough to convince him that the dolphin was coming towards us at full speed, and accordingly got his gun ready, meanwhile giving me some rapid hints about the best way of shooting. "Now, don't aim at the head," he told me. "Never at the head, whatever you do." "What a queer idea!" said I. "Wouldn't a bullet through its head stop it dead?" [Illustration: HAULING A DOLPHIN INTO THE YACHT'S DINGHY. _From a Photograph._] "Most certainly; but you would waste your powder and shot. The dolphin would sink at once, taking away to the depths of the ocean both your bullet and your five-franc premium. No; you must aim squarely at the belly. Otherwise----Dear me!" At that very moment the dolphin jumped clear out of the waves quite close to us. Swift as lightning Desmond aimed at the flying monster, shining in the sunlight about a hundred yards ahead, and pulled trigger. "Well done! A splendid shot!" I shouted enthusiastically, as the bullet took effect and the dolphin disappeared. "It was _too_ splendid!" grumbled Desmond. Without another word he jumped into the dinghy, towing astern, where the boy was already waiting for him, a harpoon in his hand. "Keep an eye upon it as soon as it comes up," he shouted to me, as he scrambled for an oar. "There it is! I see it, bleeding!" I cried. The wounded dolphin had reappeared a short distance away, the foam of the waves around being tinted red with its life-blood. Pointing out the right direction to the pair in the boat, I shouted a few remarks after them. "I should say it is sinking. Make haste! _Dépêchez-vous!_ It is turning over on its back; I see only its white underside. Quick! Quick!" "_Malheur de ma vie!_" I heard Desmond groaning in despair. Under his very nose, just at the moment when Jean-Marie Le Floch was about to throw his harpoon, the white spot suddenly disappeared; the sea had swallowed the dead dolphin in an instant. At that moment of bitter disappointment I foresaw the sad _dénouement_ of the venture: our shameful return empty-handed to the little harbour amid the sneers of the old fishermen, who would inquire eagerly:-- "What about the porpoises, gentlemen? How many dolphins are you bringing in?"