“Dessay I could, sir; but do you know the best way to open ’em?”
“Force a knife in between the shells.”
“And break the knife,” said the old sailor, chuckling. “No, there’s a better way than that. Lay ’em out in the sun away from the water, and they soon open their mouths and gape.”
“But then they die and go bad.”
“That’s right, sir; they do, and smell lovely. That’s the way to do it best.”
“But you can’t eat bad oysters.”
“Not likely, sir. I’m going to open these with the axe, and after we’ve felt whether they’ve got any pearls in ’em we shall put the soft fish in the bucket of clean water and take ’em back for cooking. Here goes. I’ve seen how it’s done before now.”
He took one of the oysters, laid it in a particular way upon the rock, gave it a smart blow over the muscular hinge, and then, taking advantage of the half-paralysed mollusc, he managed to get the edge of the axe between the shells, wriggled it about a little, and then, mastering the opposition offered by the singular creature within, he wrenched the two shells apart and used his knife to scrape out the flesh of the oyster, felt it well over and then thrust it into the bucket, which he half filled with the clear water.
“How many pearls?” said Carey.
“Not one, sir.”