Without a word, the boy pulled up the boat, dug the flukes of the anchor deep into the sand, and started off into the darkness.
“Come on, Tom,” I said laughing. “This is an Arabian Night Expedition headed by one of the mutes of Haroun Al Raschid. Hustle up, or we’ll be left behind.” About three hundred yards from our landing-place our guide suddenly disappeared; we came abruptly on the corner of a small brick building, and rounded it to find him working on the padlock of a broad, low door.
“Bee’s here,” remarked the boy, flinging the door open as we came up.
We stepped just inside and paused. The scratch of a fusee, the clatter of a lifted lantern, and the low room sprung into light.
A weird sight met our eyes. On a shelf three great diving helmets, with shining cyclopean eyes of heavy glass, reflected back the lantern’s flame, and showed barred side windows looking like caged ear-muffs. On the shelf below three pair of huge shoes, with leaden soles, seemed ready for some giant’s foot, rather than for the use of man. As the light shifted, the armor on the wall came into view; copper breastplate and twilled overalls, hosepipe and coils of safety line; a veritable museum of diving paraphernalia.
Tom turned to the boy. “You’ll have to show us very carefully how to run the safety line and the air pump, while you’re down.”
“I don’t go down,” said the boy. “Heart’s wike loike. Niver go down.”
Tom and I stared at each other in consternation. With one accord we turned to the boy again.
“Who is going down?” I cried.