Paul nodded, and strode to the back porch in order to dismount on its high platform.
“Paul and I’ll meet the rest of you at the wharf, Molly,” called Kirke, already upon the ground. “You’ll take the fishing-tackle, won’t you? We’ll bring the bait.”
The bait was little crawfishes. The boys had to buy these of an old fisherman on the flats, who kept a supply of live ones in a pail covered with wet seaweed.
“It’s fun to see Mr. Tarbox catch the crawfish,” said Paul, when they were near the fish-house. “I saw him do it last summer.”
“How does he go to work?”
“Oh! he treads a circle about six feet across in the mud. Pretty soon the water soaks into this ring, and the little crawfish’ll crawl in. All Mr. Tarbox has to do is to scoop them up.”
“That’s why he can afford to sell them cheap,” said Kirke.
“But he asks more in the winter,” said Paul.
Kirke bought two dozen crawfish for a nickel; and he and Paul carried them back to the beach, where the girls and Harry were waiting.
After the hooks had been baited, the three boys and the three girls walked out upon the wharf, Molly holding Harry by the hand. He was a clumsy little fellow, and she was afraid he might fall over the edge. She had no such fear for nimble-footed Weezy. Then they threw in their lines, and waited and waited, while the sun grew hotter and hotter. They waited in vain. Nobody had a nibble.