"Got who? What got what?" she inquired in amazement. "Go wash your
hands."

"Why, that lobster got that squid I was telling you and pa about the
other day."

"Well, that's too bad. What makes you take any interest in such things?
Run, wash your hands."

"Well, you don't often see anything like that. I never did." He went
out in the back yard, where there was a hydrant and a post with a little
table on it, and on that a shining tin-pan and a bucket of water. Here
he washed his face and hands.

"Say, papa," he said to his father, later, "you know that squid?"

"Yes."

"Well, he's dead. The lobster got him."

His father continued reading. "Well, that's too bad," he said,
indifferently.

But for days and weeks Frank thought of this and of the life he was
tossed into, for he was already pondering on what he should be in this
world, and how he should get along. From seeing his father count money,
he was sure that he would like banking; and Third Street, where his
father's office was, seemed to him the cleanest, most fascinating street
in the world.