"That's going to be a peekaneeka, sure," Grandma said grimly.

Children were not allowed to work in the oysters, but Grandma was
going to try. The children could tell she was nervous about it,
by the way her foot jerked up and down when she gave Sally her
bottle that night; but she said she expected she wasn't too dumb
to do what other folks could.

The children were still asleep when the grown-ups went to work in
the six o'clock darkness of that November Saturday. When they
woke, mush simmered on the cookstove and a bottle of milk stood
on the table. It took time to feed Sally and wash dishes and
make beds; and then Dick and Rose-Ellen ran over to the nearest
long oyster-house and peeked through a hole in the wall.

Down each side, raised above the fishy wet floor, ran a row of
booths, each with a desk and step, made of rough boards. On each
step stood a man or woman, in boots and heavy clothes, facing the
desk. Only instead of pen and paper, these people had buckets,
oysters, knives. As fast as they could, they were opening the
big, horny oyster shells and emptying the oysters into the
buckets.

Next time, Dick stayed with Sally, and Rose-Ellen and Jimmie
peeked. They were startled when a big hand dropped on each of
their heads.

"You kids skedaddle," ordered a big man. "If you want to see
things, come back at four."