peared to be a man from another world. While the others 

 swam here and there and worked most of the time in a 

 horizontal position, Art strode upright about the bottom, 

 his muscular body supporting the grotesque, formidable- 

 looking metal head covering, which emitted spasmodic 

 clouds of bubbles; or he knelt over his labors, unable to tilt 

 his body beyond a certain degree. 



Ever since Art had begun diving as a sandhog in his 

 native New Jersey many years before, he had used a helmet 

 and the heavy diving equipment that went with it. Now 

 he conceded to these warmer southern waters only to the 

 extent of omitting the bulky waterproof suit and lead shoes, 

 but he still clung to the helmet. It gave him lots more air, 

 he said, and furthermore he was used to it. 



I was constantly amused at the almost daily under- 

 water comedy staged by a huge pinkish hog snapper which 

 the divers had adopted as their mascot. This friendly deni- 

 zen of the wreck could be seen whenever the men were at 

 work, hovering like an affectionate puppy close beside 

 them, and waiting to devour the tasty tidbits which the 

 jetting hoses dislodged from the sand and coral. Behind 

 him, more timid but just as hungry, hovered his two 

 devoted wives, slightly smaller than their lord and mas- 

 ter. 



Occasionally one of the divers would interrupt his 

 work long enough to clutch at a wriggling worm uncovered 

 by the jet stream. He would hardly have time to extend it 

 toward the waiting snapper before it disappeared down 

 that lordly sultan's throat. One wondered when the patient 

 retinue behind him fed, for they never presumed to snatch 

 an offering as long as their mate was around. 



One day as I watched, while Ed manipulated the 

 jetting hose and Pete and Art pawed among the rubble at 

 its mouth as the sand melted away before its attack, there 

 was a sudden gleam of gold. All three dove at it at once. 



The Florida Keys 93 



