Quint was down the ladder and at the stern in an instant. As he jumped onto the transom, the fish’s head slipped back into the water and, a second later, slammed into the transom. The jaws closed on the wood, and the head shook violently from side to side. Brody grabbed a cleat and held on, unable to look away from the eyes. The boat shuddered and jerked each time the fish moved its head. Quint slipped and fell to his knees on the transom. The fish let go and dropped beneath the surface, and the boat lay still again.

“He was waiting for us!” yelled Brody.

“I know,” said Quint.

“How did he—”

“It don’t matter,” said Quint. “We’ve got him now.”

“We’ve got him? Did you see what he did to the boat?”

“Give it a mighty good shake, didn’t he?”

The rope holding the sheep tightened, shook for a moment, then went slack.

Quint stood and picked up the harpoon. “He’s took the sheep. It’ll be a minute before he comes back.”

“How come he didn’t take the sheep first?”

“He got no manners,” Quint cackled. “Come on, you motherfucker. Come and get your due.”

Brody saw fever in Quint’s face—a heat that lit up his dark eyes, an intensity that drew his lips back from his teeth in a crooked smile, an anticipation that strummed the sinews in his neck and whitened his knuckles.

The boat shuddered again, and there was a dull, hollow thump.

“What’s he doing?” said Brody.

Quint leaned over the side and shouted, “Come out from under there, you cocksucker! Where are your guts? You’ll not sink me before I get to you!”

“What do you mean, sink us?” said Brody. “What’s he doing?”

“He’s trying to chew a hole in the bottom of the fucking boat, that’s what! Look in the bilge. Come out, you godforsaken sonofabitch!” Quint raised high his harpoon.

Brody knelt and raised the hatch cover over the engine room. He peered into the dark, oily hole. There was water in the bilges, but there always was, and he saw no new hole through which water could pour. “Looks okay to me,” he said. “Thank God.”

The dorsal fin and tail surfaced ten yards to the right of the stern and began to move again toward the boat. “There you come,” said Quint, cooing. “There you come.” He stood, legs spread, left hand on his hip, right hand extended to the sky, grasping the harpoon. When the fish was a few feet from the boat and heading straight on, Quint cast his iron.

The harpoon struck the fish in front of the dorsal fin. And then the fish hit the boat, knocking the stern sideways and sending Quint tumbling backward. His head struck the foot-rest of the fighting chair, and a trickle of blood ran down his neck. He jumped to his feet and cried, “I got you! I got you, you miserable prick!”

The rope attached to the iron dart snaked overboard as the fish sounded, and when it reached the end, the barrel popped off the transom, fell into the water, and vanished.