“Not I. I never joke.”
“Turthles is it—green fat an’ all?”
“Ay, an’ shells too.”
“Sure it’s for the coppers they’re wanted.”
“Just so, Larry, an’ if you’ll ship your oar an jump out wi’ the painter, we’ll haul the boat up an’ show you how to catch ’em.”
As the sailor spoke, the boat’s keel grated on the sand, and the Irishman sprang over the side, followed by his comrades, who regarded the expedition in the light of a “good spree.”
The party had to wait some time, however, for the anticipated sport. It was near sunset when they landed, but turtles are not always ready to deliver themselves up, even though the honour of being eaten by London aldermen sometimes awaits them! It is usually night before the creatures come out of the sea to enjoy a snooze on the beach. The men did not remain idle, however. They dragged the boat a considerable distance from the water, and then turned it keel up, supporting one gunwale on several forked sticks, so that a convenient shelter was provided. This look-out house was still further improved by having a soft carpet of leaves and grass spread beneath it.
When these preparations had been made, those men, who had never seen turtle-turning performed, were instructed in their duties by an experienced hand. The process being simple, the explanation was short and easy.
“You see, lads,” said the instructor, leaning against the boat and stuffing down the glowing tobacco in his pipe with the point of his (apparently) fireproof little finger—“You see, lads, this is ’ow it is. All that you’ve got for to do is to keep parfitly still till the turtles comes out o’ the sea, d’ye see?—then, as the Dook o’ Wellin’ton said at Waterloo—Up boys an’ at ’em! W’en, ov coorse, each man fixes his eyes on the turtle nearest him, runs out, ketches him by the rim of his shell an’ turns him slap over on his back—d’ye understand?”
“Clear as ditch wather,” said Larry.