By this time I could see that E. E., like a good many other people I could mention, was getting sort of restless for other attentions than those her husband could give. She kept casting side-glances at Mr. Burke, and at last says she to Dempster:
"Dempster, it isn't expected that a man should always be a-hanging about his wife. It's time for you to do some netting for Phœmie."
E. E. said this almost in a whisper, but I heard it, and all the temper in me riled up to my throat.
Sisters, this married woman was just dying to change off her husband for the beau that was devoting all his energies to me. I felt that the crisis had come that self-interest and a high moral standard demanded that I should keep this man from the lure of a married woman. I owed it to myself, to Dempster, and, above all, to the cause of morality, to hold that man firmly to his post.
"Phœmie," says Dempster, coming up to me and looking as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, "let me scoop for you?"
Before I could speak Mr. Burke took that nefarious hint and went over to E. E.
I gave Dempster a look of withering contempt, and flung my bait out with a splash that must have scared all the crabs out of a year's growth.
"No," says I, "you may be willing to desert the marital outposts, but I will not help you. Go back to your wife; I can catch all the crabs I want without help."
"Well, just as you like," says Dempster, and, settling down on the bow of the boat, he pulled his hat over his eyes and went to sleep, then and there.
Three crabs come up to my bait—nibble, nibble, nibble. I drew in the line, they crawled through the water after it. Still I drew and drew. Three great plump fellows came to the top of the water. It was a good chance to call Burke away. He was leaning over E. E. and whispering, while she listened.