Bruce Browning arose to his feet and removed his coat.
"That's one way to keep cool at a clambake," grinned the man in gray. "What are you going to do?"
"Mop up the beach with you," answered Browning, quietly. "I am going to teach you a lesson."
"Teach is correct as you applied it," said Mr. Cooler. "Down this way I find people say 'learn' for 'teach.' Just think how bad it would have sounded had you said you were going to learn me a lesson."
He raked out another clam, but dropped it, shaking his hand and blowing on his fingers.
"Even though I am Cooler, I find some things are warm enough," he murmured. "That clam must have been near a fire. I dote on clams, baked, boiled, fried or frizzled, it don't make a dern bit of difference. Whenever I get an opportunity I go gunning for clams myself. I think it is great sport to shoot a clam on the wing. With a good bird gun and a dog, I presume it is an easy thing to bag clams around here?"
He was not paying the least attention to the big Yale man, and Browning's threat to "wipe up the beach" with him seemed forgotten.
Hans was glaring at the man in gray, while strange, gurgling sounds came from his throat. All at once he gave a yell, rolled over backward and scrambled to his feet.
"Don't touch him, Pruce!" warned the Dutch boy. "I peen goin' to smash dot veller myseluf!"