He did not answer, but we heard him draw his breath hard; then there came a splashing noise, and directly after our school-fellow backed towards us.
“I’ve got him,” he shouted, his voice sounding hollow and strange.
“What is it?”
“I dunno,” he cried, and then, wrenching himself round, he dropped something soft down upon the rock.
“Why, it’s a crab!” I cried.
“A soft one,” shouted Bob. “He can’t nip now.”
As he spoke he poked the curious-looking object with his finger, making it wince and threaten with its claws, but they were perfectly soft, and it was evident that the creature had only just crept out of its old shell, and was hiding away in the dark hole waiting for the new armour to form.
“Well, he is a rum one,” said Bob, growing bolder. “Why, he’s just like a counterfeit is when you pull his tail out of a whelk shell.”
“Not quite so soft,” I said, gaining confidence and handling the crab in turn, for it was not so fleshy feeling as the back part of hermit crabs, which we called counterfeits in our part of the world.
“What shall we do with if?” said Big. “It isn’t good to eat now.”