It was not always completely successful, however.

Small portions of its body or its tail were frequently left in the claws of the monster below.
Fascinated by the drama, young Cowperwood came daily to watch.
One morning he stood in front of the tank, his nose almost pressed to the glass.

Only a portion of the squid remained, and his ink-bag was emptier than ever.

In the corner of the tank sat the lobster, poised apparently for action.
The boy stayed as long as he could, the bitter struggle fascinating him.
Now, maybe, or in an hour or a day, the squid might die, slain by the lobster, and the lobster would eat him.

He looked again at the greenish-copperish engine of destruction in the corner and wondered when this would be.