"You need have no fear," said I to the pretty waitress.
She said nothing.
"Of course if you _are_ afraid," I added, "perhaps you might care to
change your seat."
There was room in the stern where I sat.
"Do you think there is any danger?" she asked.
"From sharks?"
"Yes."
"Reaching up and biting you?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I don't really suppose there is," I said, managing to convey the
idea, I am ashamed to say, that the catastrophe was a possibility.
She came over and seated herself beside me. I was very much ashamed of
myself, but I could not repress a triumphant glance ahead at the other
boat, where Kemper sat huddled forward, evidently bored to extinction.
Every now and then I could see him turn and crane his neck as though in
an effort to distinguish what was going on in our boat.
There was nothing going on, absolutely nothing. The moon was magnificent;
and I think the pretty waitress must have been a little tired, for her
head drooped and nodded at moments, even while I was talking to her about
a specimen of _Euplectilla speciosa_ on which I had written a monograph.
So she must have been really tired, for the subject was interesting.
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