"I didn't like to call it by its real name," said Cynthia, "as Uncle Tony told it. Don't you think, Mr. Jones, that going to sea is very bad for the mor——"
The conversation was taking too personal a turn. I pushed in among the hooplike roots.
"See here!" I said, "and here! and here!" as I pulled the oysters from their holding places and threw them into the pail. All about us the shells were opening and shutting, as if they longed for the return of the tide, which was about two feet below them.
"Now that's exactly like so many of the stories one hears. I expected to stand under a very high tree and see you climb it as you would a hickory at home. I meant to stand under the branches and hold my dress and catch—Oh, pshaw! Why do I talk to you?"
"You have too much imagination," said I. "Just taste one before you begin to abuse us all so."
"I am not abusing any one, Mr. Jones; I only said——"
"Halloo! Halloo!"
It was the Skipper's voice. Fearing that something of an unpleasant nature had occurred, we started quickly back again.
"Breakfast's ready," said the Skipper, with his mouth full of pork.
As I approached the camp I saw a signal in the distance. I discovered after a moment's scrutiny that it was a signal from the Bo's'n. I beckoned him to come to me, but he only shook his head, and waved more wildly than before, pointing with sharp, quick jerks of his thumb over his shoulder to the westward.