" I don't know. Why?" 
"Well, that lobster's going to eat that squid. I can 
see more and more of him gone every day." 
" How's that?" asked his father, indifferently. 
"Why, that old lobster he just lies down there on the 
bottom of the tank, and he keeps his eyes fixed on that 
squid; and every now and then he jumps up with a bang, 
and he almost gets him. Sometimes he does get him— 
a little; but the squid pulls away. He's nipped off almost 
half his tail by now. And you know that ink-bag he 
carries—that stuff he shoots out to make a cloud?" 
"Well, that's almost empty now. He's shot out so 
much he ain't got any more, or hardly any more." 
" He hasn't any more," corrected his father. 
"Well," went on his son, ignoring the correction, "you 
see, he's getting tired. I can see it. I've been watching 
him every day now for a week, and he's getting weaker 
all the time. That lobster won't give him any rest. I 
can see him looking at him all the time. He's goin' to 
get him. That squid's a goner. He's goin' to get him, 
He paused, his eye alight, his whole body keyed up. 
He was interested—not pityingly so much as dramatically 
interested. His young face was keen and hungry for 
further information. 
"Well, what of that?" asked his father, curiously. 
"Oh, nothing. Only I'm going by there in the morn- 
ing. I want to see whether he's got him." 
In the morning he went, his young pantalooned legs 
squared out solidly in front of the tank. The squid was 
not gone, but a piece of him; and his ink-bag was emptier 
than ever. In the corner of the tank sat the lobster, 
poised apparently for action. 
Young Cowperwood put his nose to the glass. He 
looked solemnly at the lobster. He stayed as long as he 
could, the bitter struggle fascinating him. He liked to