I dasn't kerry home no crabs."
"It does look as if we'd got as many as we'll know what to do with,"
remarked Dab, as he looked down on the sprawling multitude in the bottom
of the boat. "We'll turn the clams out of the basket, and fill that; but
we mustn't put any crabs in the fish-car. We'll stow 'em all forward."
The basket held more than half a bushel, but there was still a "heap" of
what Ford Foster called "the crusties" to pen up in the bow of the boat.
That duty attended to, the grapnel was pulled up, and Dick was set at
the oars, while Dab selected from Ford's box just the hooks and lines
their owner had made least account of.
"What'll we catch, Dab?"
"'Most anything. Nobody knows till he's done it. Perch, porgies,
cunners, black-fish, weak-fish, maybe a bass or a sheep's-head, but more
cunners than any thing else, unless we strike some flounders at the turn
of the tide."
"That's a big enough assortment to set up a fish-market on."
"If we catch 'em. We've got a good enough day, anyhow, and the tide'll
be about right by the time we get to work."
"Why not try here?"
"'Cause there's no fish to speak of, and because the crabs'll clean your
hook for you as fast as you can put the bait on. We must go out to
deeper water and better bottom. Dick knows just where to go. You might
hang your line out all day and not get a bite, if you didn't strike the
right spot.
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