"Here, here!" screamed I, "three at a haul. Will nobody help me?"
That man did not seem to hear me, but kept on whispering, while E. E. listened with a smile on her lips and her eyes half shut. The sight made me awful mad.
"I'll catch them myself," says I, and down I plunged my hand into the water. I meant to grip the crab, but he gripped me.
Oh, mercy, how he pinched and bit, and screwed his claws around my hand. It seemed as if he were twisting it into a corkscrew. I shrieked—I yelled—I tried to shake the varmint off—to dash him to atoms against the side of the boat. It was of no use: his sharp claws dug into me in fifty places; he bit like fury. The blood ran down my fingers, my voice grew weaker, but it broke up that flirtation. It was a cruel price, but I paid it cheerfully. While I retain my moral sense, no married woman shall degrade her sex by a flirtation in my presence. Never, never!
Yes, my screams broke up that well-arranged plan to delude Mr. Burke from my side, and it broke up the crabbing party too.
Dempster woke up and hauled in the lines. We had thirty crabs floundering in the hold, all fighting like imps of darkness.
"We'll have them for dinner," says Dempster, ferociously, "they won't be so lively half an hour from now."
He was right, it took us just fifteen minutes to sail back to that white house with the long stoop. Fifteen minutes after that, every crab was in water so hot that they gave up clawing and began to turn furiously red.
Half an hour after we sat around a long table out under the trees, with a great platter of those scrawny creatures lying with their red shells uppermost, a good deal easier to catch than they had been, I can tell you.
Mr. Burke was busy as could be, telling me how to put in my knife under the red shell, so as to lay the sweet white flesh open.