“Now, fisherman,” she cried, “you presume.”
“I must,” I answered, “for it is the nature that God gave me.”
“And, Thomas,” she went on, “you dig in our—in Mr. Goodwin’s clam beds.”
“I do not,” I cried, forgetting, in my anger, “they are m—, they belong to a queer fellow who lives near.”
“Oh,” she said. “And he lets you dig there?”
“He lets me.”
She mused and looked down at the clam beds. But the water was lapping on the flats by this, and the twilight waned.
“I wonder,” she said, and stopped.
“What?”
“I, too, would dig for clams.”