"Hit ain't no good to eat," protested Chris. "Hit tastes so strong you'd have hard work to swallow one bit of hit."
"I'll show you what I want it for," Charley said. "Just start up a little fire while the rest of us open up some clams and oysters for dinner."
When the fire was going briskly, the lad attacked the shark with his sheath-knife. Splitting it open, he cut out the fat and the liver from inside. These he placed in a big shell obtained from the beach and set the shell on the coals.
"Now get some nice, clean, Spanish moss," he directed, "and unravel a yard or so of that rope we brought with us. There's nothing better than shark oil for a liniment. It is going to do our feet a world of good."
As soon as the oil was tried out in the shell, they rubbed it on to their swollen feet. The result was immediate and gratifying. The burning ceased at once and the aching visibly decreased. When they had rubbed the oil well in, they wrapped their feet up in Spanish moss which they bound in place with bits of the raveled rope.
"Now if we lay quiet and don't use them, they will be all right by to-morrow," declared Charley, with satisfaction. "I guess our clothes are dry by now. We had better put them on or this sun will have our backs blistered as sore as our feet."
The boys hobbled over to where they had spread out their clothes and to their satisfaction found them perfectly dry.
They were just slipping on their shirts when the captain descended upon them, wrath on his usually good-natured face.
"What have you done with my clothes?" he demanded, angrily. "This is no time for joking. Stop it right now."
"We haven't touched your clothes," Charley protested, indignantly. "They are just where you left them."