had slipped into his diving dress and was at the
moment adjusting the breastplates of lead, weighing
twenty-five pounds each, to his chest and back. His
leaden shoes were already on his feet. With the
exception of his copper helmet, the signal line around
his wrist, and the life line about his waist, he was
ready to go under water.

Pretty soon he would don his helmet, and, with
a last word to Jimmy, his tender, would tuck his chin
whisker inside the round opening, wait until the face
plate was screwed on, and then, with a cheerful nod
behind the glass, denoting that his air was coming all
right, would step down his rude ladder into the sea,--
down,--down,--down to his place among the crabs
and the seaweed.

Suddenly my ears became conscious of a conversation
carried on in a low tone around the corner of the
shanty.

"Old Moon-face'll have to git up and git in a
minute," said a derrick man to a shoveller,--born
sailors, these,--"there'll be a red-hot time 'round
here 'fore night."

"Well, there ain't no wind."

"Ain't no wind,--ain't there? See that bobble
waltzin' in?"