"Got what?" exclaimed an all-but angry voice from down there 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 won't," 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 won't 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?"

"Right across there, almost in a straight line. We'll run it next week
in Ham's yacht. Splendid weak-fishing right in the mouth of that inlet,