“Yer doubts, is it? and again? An’ what for this time?”
“Well, you see, I’m afraid it’s not altogether fair to you.”
“You’re a quare bird, wid yer doubts, an’ that’s all about it,” said Pat.
They then went back to the bank, where a bright fire was burning, and the pot was all ready, with sea-water boiling in it. Into this they threw the clams; and sitting down around the fire, they waited.
Pat sat in silence. There was a peculiar expression on his face. He grew moody and preoccupied. Frequent sighs escaped him.
“What’s the matter, Pat?” asked Jiggins.
“O, nothin’.”
Pat struggled against his secret grief most valiantly, but soon he could struggle no longer. A deep groan burst from him, and he fell back doubled up and writhing. His face was deadly pale, and big drops of perspiration stood on his brow. In his pain he rolled over and over, and moans and low cries escaped him.
“It’s the clams!” cried Jiggins. “O, I knew it. I had my doubts about it all the time.”
“What can we do?” cried Johnny.