"You've got it!" shouted Dabney.
"Got what?" exclaimed an all but angry voice from between the seats.
"Caught the first 'crab,'" replied Dabney,—"that's what we call it. Can you steer? Guess I'd better row."
"No you wont," was the very resolute reply, as Ford regained his seat and his oars; "I sha'n't catch any more crabs of that sort. I'm a little out of practice, that's all."
"I should say you were, a little. Well, it wont hurt you. 'Tisn't much of a pull."
Ford would have pulled it, now, if he had blistered all the skin off his hands in doing so, and he did very creditable work, for some minutes, among the turns and windings of the narrow inlet.
"Here we are," shouted Dabney, at last. "We are in the inlet yet, but it widens out into the bay."
"That's the bay, out yonder?"
"Yes; and the island between that and the ocean's no better'n a mere bar of sand."
"How d'you get past it?"