I'll steer, and you pull, till
we're out o' that, and then I'll take the oars."
"I might as well row out to the crab-grounds," said Ford, as he pitched
his coat forward, and took his seat at the oars. "All ready?"
"Ready," said Dab; and "The Jenny" glided gracefully away from the
landing with the starting-push he gave her.
Ford Foster had had oars in his hands before, but his experience had
been limited to a class of vessels different in some respects from the
one he was in now.
He was short of something, at all events. It may have been skill, or it
may have been legs or discretion; but, whatever was lacking, at the
third or fourth stroke the oar-blades went a little too deeply below the
smooth surface of the water. There was a vain tug, a little out of
"time;" and then there was a boy on the bottom of the boat, and a pair
of well-polished shoes lifted high in the air.
"You've got it," shouted Dabney.
"Got what?" exclaimed an all-but angry voice from down there between the
seats.
"Caught the first 'crab,'" replied Dabney: "that's what we call it. Can
you steer? Guess I'd better row."
"No, you won't," was the very resolute reply, as Ford regained his seat
and his oars. "I sha'n't catch any more crabs of that sort. I'm a little
out of practice, that's all."
"I should say you were, a little.
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