Hewing a lane through the hostile sea Philip forgot the cunning of the doddering beast and swam noisier than he needed to. Faster grew his strokes. His line was a straight, dead one. Fancy strokes and dives—giraffe leaps ... he summoned into play. He shot out recklessly. One time he suddenly paused—and floated for a stretch. Another time he swam on his back, gazing at the chalky sky. He dived for whole lengths.
But the shark, a bloaty, stone-colored man-killer, took a shorter cut. Circumnavigating the swimmer it bore down upon him with the speed of a hurricane. Within adequate reach it turned, showed its gleaming belly, seizing its prey.
A fiendish gargle—the gnashing of bones—as the sea once more closed its jaws on Philip.
Some one aboard ship screamed. Women fainted. There was talk of a gun. Ernest, an oar upraised, capsized the boat as he tried to inflict a blow on the coursing, chop-licking man-eater.
And again the fish turned. It scraped the waters with its deadly fins.
At Coco Té, at the fledging of the dawn, Maffi, polishing the tinware, hummed an obeah melody
Trinidad is a damn fine place
But obeah down dey....
Peace had come to her at last.