"What do you think of it, Tom?" I said.
"Well, 'taint so very bad, Mas'r Harry," he grumbled out. "But ain't
them sharkses?"
I followed his pointing finger, and, to my horror, I could see, cleaving
the blue and creamy-foamed water, close inshore, the black fins of one--
two--three--half a score of sharks; while all the time, dashing and
splashing in and out of the surf, busily unloading boats and larger
vessels, were dozens of mulatto porters.
I expected every moment to hear a shriek and to see the silver foam
tinged with red. My heart beat intermittently, and there was a strange
dampness in my hands; but I soon learned that familiarity bred contempt,
and that probably from the noise and splashing kept up, the sharks
rarely ventured an attack. But all the same, that one incident made me
gaze down into the blue depths where we were at anchor with a shudder,
and think that the waters were not so safe as those of home.