“HERE we are at last, Mr. Ker,” says the captain, as we cast anchor off the coast of Arabia, a little after sunset, about two-thirds down the Red Sea. “It’s too dark to make out much to-night, but you’ll see a rare sight when you come on deck to-morrow morning.”

The worthy captain’s mention of “coming on deck” is doubtless from force of habit, for neither he nor I have been anywhere but on deck for more than a week, except perhaps to look for something which we have left below. Most of my time is spent in the rigging, where what little wind there is may generally be met with; and our table-cloth is spread on the “after-hatch,” while our arrangements for going to bed consist merely of throwing a blanket on the deck, and stretching ourselves upon it, undisturbed save by an occasional scamper of two or three frolicsome rats over our faces.

When I awake the next morning, I find the captain’s promise amply made good. The sun is just rising, and under its golden splendor the broad blue sea stretches westward as far as eye can reach, every ripple tipped with living fire. On the other side extends a sea of another kind—the gray, unending level of the great Arabian desert, melting dimly into the warm dreamy sky. In front, the low white wall of a Turkish fort stands out like an ivory carving against the hot brassy yellow of the sand-hills that line the shore; while all around it are the little cabins of mud-plastered wickerwork that compose the Arab village, looking very much like hampers left behind by some monster picnic. Here and there, through the light green of the shallower water along the shore, a flash of dazzling white, keen and narrow as the edge of a sword, marks the presence of the dangerous coral-reefs among which we have been picking our way for the last three days, with the chance of running aground at any moment.

“You were right, captain,” say I, as the burly skipper rises and stretches his brawny arms, like a bear awaking from its winter nap. “This is a sight worth seeing, indeed.”

“Ah, this ain’t what I meant,” chuckles the captain; “the best o’ the show’s to come yet. Look over yonder—there, just ’twixt the reef and the shore. D’ye see anything in the water?”

“Well, I think I see something swimming—sharks, I suppose.”

“Sharks, eh? Well, land-sharks you might call ’em, p’raps. Take my glass and try again.”

The first look through the glass works a startling change. In a moment the swarm of round black spots which I have ignorantly taken for the backs of sharks, are turned into faces—the faces of Arab children, and (as I perceive with no little amazement) of very young children too, some of the smallest being apparently not more than five or six years old! Our vessel is certainly not less than a mile from the shore, and the water, shallow as it is, is deep enough at any point to drown the very tallest of these adventurous little “water-babies;” yet they are evidently making for the ship, and that, too, at a speed that will soon bring them alongside of her.

“Are they really coming all this way out without resting?” ask I.

“Bless you, that’s nothing to an Arab!” laughs the captain; “these little darkies are as much at home in the water as on land. I’ve heard folks talk a good deal of the way the South Sea Islanders can swim; but I’ve seen as good swimming here as ever I saw there.”

And now, as the Lilliputian swimmers draw nearer, we begin to hear their shrill cries and elfish laughter; and now they are close enough for their little brown faces, and glittering teeth, and beady black eyes, to be easily distinguished; and now one final stroke of their lean sinewy arms carries them alongside, and the blue water swarms with tiny figures, looking up and waving their hands so eagerly that one might almost expect to hear them call out, “Shine, boss?” and see them produce a brush and a pot of blacking. But instead of that, there is a universal chorus of “Piastre, Howadji!” (a penny, my lord!)

“Chuck ’em a copper, and you’ll see something good!” says the captain.

I rummage the few remaining pockets of my tattered white jacket, and at last unearth a Turkish piastre (5 cts.) which I toss into the water. Instantly the smooth bright surface is dappled with a forest of tiny brown toes, all turning upward at once, and down plunge the boy-divers, their supple limbs glancing through the clear water like a shoal of fish.

By this time nearly all the crew are looking over the side, and encouraging the swimmers with lusty shouts; for, used as Jack is to all sorts of queer spectacles, this is one of which he seems never to tire.

“There’s one of ’em got it!”

“No, he ain’t!”

“Yes, he has—I see him a-comin’ up with it!”

“And there’s the others a-tryin’ to take it from him—hold tight, Sambo!”

Sure enough, the successful diver is surrounded by three or four piratical comrades, who are doing their best to snatch away the hard-won coin; but he sticks to it like a man, and as he reaches the surface, holds it up to us triumphantly, and then pops it into his mouth—the only pocket he has got.

But this is a sad mistake on his part. In a moment a crafty companion swims up behind him, and tickles him under the chin. As his mouth opens, out drops the coin into his assailant’s hand, from whom it is instantly snatched by some one else; and a regular bear-fight ensues in the water, which splashes up all around them like a fountain-jet, while their shouts and laughter make the air ring.

“Aren’t they afraid of sharks?” ask I of the captain, who has just increased the confusion tenfold by throwing another copper into the very midst of the screaming throng.

“Not they—they make too much row for any shark to come near them. Sharks are mighty easy scared, for all they’re so savage. You’ll never catch ’em coming too near a steamer when she’s goin’—the flappin’ of the screw frightens ’em away. See, there’s two of ’em comin’ along now, and you’ll just see how much the boys’ll care for ’em.”

And, indeed, the sudden uprising of those gaunt black fins, piercing the smooth water as with an unexpected stab, seems to produce no effect whatever upon these fearless urchins, who paddle about as unconcerned the sharks themselves have other business to attend to. A shoal of flying-fish come driving past, glistening like rainbows in the dazzling sunshine as they leap out of the water and fall back again. Instantly one of the “sea-lawyers” dashes at the rear of the column, while the other, wheeling around its front, heads back the fugitives into his comrade’s open jaws; and in this way the two partners contrive to make a very respectable “haul.”

But at this moment the garrison-boat is seen putting off from the shore, with one of the Pasha’s officers in the stern-sheets. At sight of the well-known official flag, our water-babies scatter like wild-fowl, and the next moment all the little black heads are seen bobbing over the shining ripples on their way back to the shore.