“No,” said Van, “they won't bite—what's the matter, Joe?”
“Oh, they may,” said Joel, his face working, and screwing both fists into his eyes; at last he burst right out into a torrent of sobs. “Oh, don't let 'em Van—don't!”
“Why, they can't,” said Van in an emphatic voice, running up the stairs to Joel's side, frightened to death at his tears.
Then he began to shake his jacket sleeve violently to bring him back to reason, “Wait Joe! oh, do stop! oh, dear, what shall I do! I tell you, they can't bite,” he screamed as loud as he could into his ear.
“You said—you—hoped—they—would,” said Joel's voice in smothered tones.
“Well, they won't anyway,” said Van decidedly. “Cause they're all stuffed—so there now!”
“Ain't they alive—nor anythin'?” asked Joel, bringing one black eye into sight from behind his chubby hands.
“No,” said Van, “they're just as dead as anything, Joel Pepper—been dead years! and there's old crabs there too, old dead crabs—and they're just lovely! Oh, such a lots of eggs as they've got! And there are shells and bugs and stones—and an awful old crocodile, and—” “Oh, dear!” sighed Joel, perfectly overcome at such a vision, and sitting down on the stairs to think. “Well, mamsie'll know where Ben is,” he said, springing up. “And then I tell you Van, we'll just tag 'em!”
“So she will,” cried Van. “Why didn't we think of that before? I wanted to think.”
“I did,” said Joel. “That was where I was goin'.”