“What is this queer little chap?” asked Nellie, pointing to another, which was partly concealed in an old whelk-shell. “He seems to want to get out and can’t.”
“Why, my dear, that is the ‘hermit crab.’ He does not want, though, to leave that comfortable lodging he has secured for himself, as you think. He’s an ‘old soldier,’ and knows when he’s well off! He belongs to what is called the ‘soft-tailed’ family, and being defenceless astern he has to seek an artificial protection against his enemies, in place of natural armour.”
“How funny!” said Nellie, watching the little animal more closely. “What a queer fellow!”
“Yes,” continued the Captain, “and, that is the reason why he goes prowling about for empty shells. Often, too, really he’s such a pugnacious fellow, he will turn the rightful tenant out, taking forcible possession. Just look at his tail and see how it is provided with a pair of pincers at the end. He is enabled by this means to hold on firmly to any shell, no matter how badly it may fit him, which he chooses for his temporary habitation.”
As he spoke, the Captain extracted with some little difficulty the buccaneer crab from the whelk-shell, showing its peculiar formation, quite unlike that of the others. A young shrimp who had lost his latitude was also found in Bob’s pond, and the discovery led the old sailor to speak of these animals that form such a pleasant relish to bread-and-butter; and he told them that one of the best fishing-grounds for them was off the Woolsner Shoal, some four miles further along the beach to the eastwards, while another good place was Selsea Bill, more eastward still.
While the Captain was giving this little lecture about the crabs and their congeners, Rover was prancing around and barking for some one to pitch in a stick or something for him to fetch out of the sea.
Presently, in bringing back a piece of wood which Bob had thrown into the water, Rover dragged ashore a mass of seaweed, a portion of which was shaped somewhat like a lettuce and coloured a greenish purple.
The Captain pounced on this at once.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed—“why, it is laver.”
“Isn’t that good to eat?” asked Mrs Gilmour. “I fancy I’ve heard people speak of it in London, or somewhere.”