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.