"Tell you what," says Ira, struck by a stray thought, "if lookin' the
place over'll do any good, you might go out with Eb Westcott this
afternoon when he baits. He's got pots all around the point."

That don't mean such a lot to me; but my middle name is Brodie. "Show
me Eb," says I.

He wa'n't any thrillin' sight, Eb; mostly rubber hip boots, flannel
shirt, and whiskers. He could have been cleaner. So could his old tub
of a lobster boat; but not while he stuck to that partic'lar line of
business, I guess. And, say, I know now what baitin' is. It's haulin'
up lobster pots from the bottom of the ocean and decoratin' 'em inside
with fish--ripe fish, at that. The scheme is to lure the lobsters into
the pot. Seems to work too; but I guess a lobster ain't got any sense
of smell.

"Better put on some old clothes fust," advised Eb, and as I always like
to dress the part I borrows a moldy suit of oilskins from Ira,
includin' one of these yellow sea bonnets, and climbs aboard.

It's a one-lunger putt-putt--and take it from me the combination of
gasolene and last Tuesday's fish ain't anything like _Eau d'Espagne_!
Quite different! Also I don't care for that jumpy up and down motion
one of these little boats gets on, specially after pie and beans for
breakfast. Then Eb hands me the steerin' ropes while he whittles some
pressed oakum off the end of a brunette plug and loads his pipe. More
perfume comin' my way!

"Ever try smokin' formaldehyde?" says I.