Dabney's reply was to draw from his pocket a couple of long, strong cords, bits of old fishing-line. He cracked a couple of clams, one against the other; tied the fleshy part firmly to the ends of the cords; tied a bit of shell on, a foot or so from the end, for a sinker; handed one to Ford; took the other himself, and laid the long-handled scoop-net he had brought with him down between them, saying:
"Now we're ready. Drop your clam to the bottom and draw it up gently. You'll get the knack of it in five minutes. It's all knack. There isn't anything else so stupid as a crab."
Ford watched carefully, and obeyed in silence.
In a minute or so more the operation of the scoop-net was called for, and then the fun began.
"The young black rascal!" exclaimed Dabney. "If he hasn't gone and got a sheep's-head!"
"A sheep's-head?"
"Yes; that's why he beats us so badly. It's better than clams, only you can't always get one."
"But how he does pull 'em in!"
"We're doing well enough," began Dabney, when suddenly there came a shrill cry of pain from Dick Lee's punt.
"He's barefooted," shouted Dab, with, it must be confessed, something like a grin, "and one of the little fellows has pinned him with his nippers."