"Oh!" replied Ford, "I left my rods at home, both of 'em. You don't
s'pose I'd go for crabs with a rod, do you? But you can take your pick
of hooks and lines."

"Crabs? Hooks and lines?"

"Why, yes. You don't mean to scoop 'em up in that landing-net, do you?"

Dab looked at his friend for a moment in blank amazement, and then the
truth broke upon him for the first time.

"Oh, I see! You never caught any crabs. Well, just you lock up your
jewellery-box, and I'll show you."

It was not easy for Dab to keep from laughing in Ford Foster's face; but
his mother had not given him so many lessons in good-breeding for
nothing, and Ford was permitted to close his ambitious "casket" without
any worse annoyance than his own wounded pride gave him.

But now came out the secret of the basket.

The cover was jerked off; and nothing was revealed but a varied
assortment of clams, large and small, but mostly of good size,--tough
old customers, that no amount of roasting or boiling would ever have
prepared for human eating.

"What are they for,--bait?"

"Yes, bait, weight, and all."