"He remembered how the barracouta had saved _him_!" "Not much!" grunted Uncle Andy.

"There's no sentiment about a swordfish, I can tell you.

He'd have jabbed the barracouta, and eaten him, too, just as quick as look, but he hated the Inkmaker, and could not think of anything else.

With a screwing backward pull he wrenched his sword out of the feeler, which seemed hardly to notice the wound.
In the same instant another feeler snatched at him, for Mr.Inkmaker, you know, had ten tentacles, every one of them spoiling for a fight.
It got only a slight hold, however, and Little Sword, whose strength was now something amazing, tore himself clear with a great livid, bleeding, burning patch on his side.
"And now, raging mad though he was, a gleam of sense flashed into his brain.

He saw that it was not much use stabbing those tough tentacles.
Lurching forward as if to stand on his head he shot straight downward, and drove his sword full length into one of those dreadful eyes.
"In an instant three or four feelers closed upon him.