"Philip, come on, a ship is in--let's go." Ernest, the wharf rat,
seized him by the arm.
"Come," he said, "let's go before it's too late. I want to get some
money, yes."
Dashing out of the house the two boys made for the wharf. It was dusk.
Already the Hindus in the bachelor quarters were mixing their _rotie_
and the Negroes in their singlets were smoking and cooling off. Night
was rapidly approaching. Sunset, an iridescent bit of molten gold, was
enriching the stream with its last faint radiance.
The boys stole across the lawn and made their way to the pier.
"Careful," cried Philip, as Ernest slid between a prong of
oyster-crusted piles to a raft below, "careful, these shells cut
wussah'n a knife."
On the raft the boys untied a rowboat they kept stowed away under the
dock, got into it and pushed off. The liner still had two hours to
dock. Tourists crowded its decks. Veering away from the barnacled piles
the boys eased out into the churning ocean.
It was dusk. Night would soon be upon them. Philip took the oars while
Ernest stripped down to loin cloth.
"Come, Philip, let me paddle--" Ernest took the oars. Afar on the dusky
sea a whistle echoed. It was the pilot's signal to the captain of port.
The ship would soon dock.
The passengers on deck glimpsed the boys. It piqued their curiosity to
see two black boys in a boat amid stream.
"All right, mistah," cried Ernest, "a penny, mistah."
He sprang at the guilder as it twisted and turned through a streak
of silver dust to the bottom of the sea. Only the tips of his crimson
toes--a sherbet-like foam--and up he came with the coin between his
teeth.
Deep sea gamin, Philip off yonder, his mouth noisy with coppers,
gargled, "This way, sah, as far as yo' like, mistah."
An old red-bearded Scot, in spats and mufti, presumably a lover of the
exotic in sport, held aloft a sovereign. A sovereign! Already red, and
sore by virtue of the leaps and plunges in the briny swirl, Philip's
eyes bulged at its yellow gleam.
"Ovah yah, sah--"
Off in a whirlpool the man tossed it. And like a garfish Philip took
after it, a falling arrow in the stream. His body, once in the water,
tore ahead. For a spell the crowd on the ship held its breath. "Where
is he?" "Where is the nigger swimmer gone to?" Even Ernest, driven
to the boat by the race for such an ornate prize, cold, shivering,
his teeth chattering--even he watched with trembling and anxiety. But
Ernest's concern was of a deeper kind. For there, where Philip had
leaped, was Deathpool--a spawning place for sharks, for baracoudas!
But Philip rose--a brief gurgling sputter--a ripple on the sea--and the
Negro's crinkled head was above the water.
"Hey!" shouted Ernest, "there, Philip! Down!"
And down Philip plunged. One--two--minutes. God, how long they seemed!
And Ernest anxiously waited. But the bubble on the water boiled, kept
on boiling--a sign that life still lasted! It comforted Ernest.
Suddenly Philip, panting, spitting, pawing, dashed through the water
like a streak of lightning.
"Shark!" cried a voice aboard ship. "Shark! There he is, a great big
one! Run, boy! Run for your life!"
From the edge of the boat Philip saw the monster as twice, thrice
it circled the boat. Several times the shark made a dash for it
endeavoring to strike it with its murderous tail.
The boys quietly made off. But the shark still followed the boat. It
was a pale green monster. In the glittering dusk it seemed black to
Philip. Fattened on the swill of the abattoir nearby and the beef
tossed from the decks of countless ships in port it had become used to
the taste of flesh and the smell of blood.
"Yo' know, Ernest," said Philip, as he made the boat fast to a raft,
"one time I thought he wuz rubbin' 'gainst me belly. He wuz such a big
able one. But it wuz wuth it, Ernie, it wuz wuth it--"
In his palm there was a flicker of gold. Ernest emptied his loin cloth
and together they counted the money, dressed, and trudged back to the
cabin.
On the lawn Philip met Maura. Ernest tipped his cap, left his brother,
and went into the house. As he entered Maffi, pretending to be scouring
a pan, was flushed and mute as a statue. And Ernest, starved, went in
the dining room and for a long time stayed there. Unable to bear it any
longer, Maffi sang out, "Ernest, whey Philip dey?"
"Outside--some whey--ah talk to Maura--"
"Yo' sure yo' no lie, Ernest?" she asked, suspended.
"Yes, up cose, I jes' lef' 'im 'tandin' out dey--why?"
"Nutton--"
He suspected nothing. He went on eating while Maffi tiptoed to the shed
roof. Yes, confound it, there he was, near the stand-pipe, talking to
Maura!
"Go stop _ee, oui_," she hissed impishly. "Go 'top ee, yes."