“I thought not. But I say, Bob, that’s a precious nasty job.”
“Not it, sir. I don’t mind. Done worse than this.”
“And the oyster looks horribly messy.”
“It won’t when it’s made into soup. But I say, nice shells, aren’t they?”
“Beautiful,” said Carey, who was examining them. “So these are to cut up for mother-o’-pearl?”
“Yes, sir, and to make shirt buttons.”
Bang! a wrench with the axe, and another fat oyster was cut out and the shells cast aside, before a fresh search was made for pearls, but without result.
“Not much luck, Bob,” said Carey.
“What! Look at these two shells; and there goes another oyster for the pot. Reg’lar fat one. I do call it luck. Bet a penny we do better with the oysters and the tackle for the soup than the doctor does. Besides, we’re going to ketch some fish.”
It was very pleasant sitting there in the sunshine, with the cocoanut-trees waving and bending in the soft breeze to his right, the calm lagoon, dazzling in its brightness, to his left, and away beyond it the silver spray of the breakers thundering softly upon the coral reef. Then, too, there was a submarine garden in every pool, and a luxury of beauty on all sides, even to his very feet. The only thing which seemed repellent to Carey was the growing heap of pearl shells, and the work upon which Bostock was engaged, which the boy looked upon with disgust.