“Marky,” I said, “if you could choose some other tune I’d be obliged to you.”
“It was not on the cause of you that I whistled it,” he replied gloomily. “It is on the cause of myself, who can not make this journey, because I am too large that any diver dress can take me in.”
“Well, one of us has got to go,” I said, knotting the life-line round my waist. The captain had moved off to inspect the working of the pump.
“And of a truth!” cried the Marquis, “the pitcher that goes to the well is soonest mended!”
Tanjong now came with the front glass to screw up my helmet. I looked round at the Gertrude once more. Still the two spider threads dangled down her counter, across the littered, dangerous deck, with its careless tenders and the empty, heaving swell of the silent sea.
“They’ve been down too long—every one must be asleep on that mud-scow of Gilbert’s,” growled the captain. “Maybe something’s got them. I near forgot to tell you: you keep your eyes skinned for clams, down below there.”
“Clams?”
“Yes—you don’t need to worry about sharks: we haven’t seen one, not for days; and as for diamond-fish, if they come along and get a hold of your air-tube, it’s no use you or any one worryin’. But them clams, they are dangerous. There’s some proper big ones, and if you put your foot in one——-”
“I can guess,” I said; for I knew something of the terrible giant tridacna of these southern seas. “I’m ready: screw up.”
The Marquis had of course waited for this moment to make a speech—when I could not possibly hear him, being shut into my metal shell like a lobster into its carapace—and he rushed forward to seize and press my hand, as I stepped over the side of the lugger to the ladder below. He spoke eloquently and I judged imprudently; and tears rose in his eyes. I cut short the scene by sliding my feet off the ladder and letting myself go.