in, we had an officer of the Marine Artillery who knew about such
things, and he put a big cartridge into a lump of pork, with two
wires, and as soon as the shark had swallowed it he would touch
a spring or something, and there would be an explosion. There was
not as much fun in it as having a hook, but it was quicker, and he
did not do it for sport, but because he hated the sharks. I heard
say that he had had a young brother killed by one of them. He would
sit there on the taffrail for hours on the lookout for them, with
three or four loaded lumps of pork. Why, I have known him kill as
many as a dozen in a day. I expect the best part of his pay must
have gone in dynamite.

"He had a narrow escape one day; somehow the thing went wrong, and
in trying to set it right he fell over the taffrail. The shark had
bolted the bait, but this was not enough for his appetite, and he
went straight at the officer. He had had a young ensign sitting
beside him, who had often watched his work, and knew how the thing
went. I was standing near at the time, and he began twisting some
screws and things as cool as a cucumber, though I could see as
his hand shook a bit. Well, he got it right just in time, for the
shark was not half a length away from the captain, and was turning
himself over for a bite, when the thing went off, and there was
an end of the shark. The captain was a bit shaken up, but he made
a grab at the rope, and held on to it till we lowered a boat and
picked him up. He had to be got up on deck in a chair, and it was
two or three days before he was himself again. When he got round
he set to work again more earnestly than ever; and I believe that
if we had stopped in the West Indies long enough, there would not
have been a shark left in those waters."