"How's that?"

Dabney's reply was to draw from his pocket a couple of long, strong
cords, bits of old fishing-lines. He cracked a couple of clams one
against the other; tied the fleshy part of one to each of the cords;
tied bits of shell on, a foot or so from the ends, for sinkers; handed
one cord 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 down to the bottom, and it won't be
half a minute before you feel something pull on it. Then you draw it up
gently,--steady as you know how. You mustn't jerk the crab loose. You'll
get the knack of it in five minutes. It's all knack. There isn't any
thing else so stupid as a crab."

Ford watched carefully, and obeyed in silence the directions he had
received.

In a minute or so more the operation of the scoop-net was called for,
and the fun began.

"You got him!" exclaimed Ford in a loud whisper, as he saw Dab quickly
plunge the net into the water, and then shake out of it into the bottom
of the boat a great sprawling "blue-legged" crab. "He's a whopper!"

"He'll do for one."

"There's one on mine! I declare, he's let go!"

"You jerked the clam away from him. Sink it again. He's mad about it.