Fred now prostrated himself on the beach, while John proceeded to examine; he pulled a little.
“O-w-w! you hurt me!”
“It’s over the barb; I can’t pull it out without almost killing you.”
“My father’ll kill me quite, if he finds out I’ve played truant; father’s awful when he rises. O, I wish I’d gone to school.”
“I should think you would.”
“It must come out somehow; can’t you cut it out?”
“I’ll try; but it’ll hurt.”
“I can’t help it; but be as easy as you can.”
John had been shelling clams with his knife the day before, and that forenoon he’d used it as a screw-driver, to tighten the flint in his gun; but he whet it on the sole of his boot, and began to cut.
“O, dear! what shall I do? Boo-oo! cut away, John! I shall die! I shall die! I wish I’d gone to school! Murder! murder!! murder!!!”