can try some of your tackle."

Ford's face brightened a good deal at that suggestion, for he had more
than once cast a crest fallen look at his pretentious box. But he
replied,--

"A mess! How many crabs can one man eat?"

"I don't know," said Dab. "It depends a good deal on who he is. Then, if
he eats the shells, he can't take in so many."

"Eat de shells? Yah, yah, yah! Dat beats my mudder! She's allers
a-sayin' wot a waste de shells make," laughed Dick. "I jest wish we
might ketch some fish. I dasn't kerry home no crabs."

"It does look as if we'd got as many as we'll know what to do with,"
remarked Dab, as he looked down on the sprawling multitude in the bottom
of the boat. "We'll turn the clams out of the basket, and fill that; but
we mustn't put any crabs in the fish-car. We'll stow 'em all forward."

The basket held more than half a bushel, but there was still a "heap" of
what Ford Foster called "the crusties" to pen up in the bow of the boat.

That duty attended to, the grapnel was pulled up, and Dick was set at
the oars, while Dab selected from Ford's box just the hooks and lines
their owner had made least account of.

"What'll we catch, Dab?"

"'Most anything. Nobody knows till he's done it. Perch, porgies,