"Who? the lobster? There's dozens down in the car by the wharf. Lift the
cover and fish one out with the dip net. Pick out the biggest one you
can find, 'cause I'm likely to be hungry when I get back, and your
appetite ain't a hummin' bird's. There! I've got to go if I want to get
anything done afore-- . . . Humph! never mind. So long."

He hurried away, as if conscious that he had said more than he intended.
At the corner of the house he turned to call:

"I say! Brown! be kind of careful when you dip him out. None of 'em are
plugged."

"What?"

"I say none of them lobsters' claws are plugged. I didn't have time to
plug the last lot I got from my pots, so you want to handle 'em careful
like, else they'll nip you. Tote the one you pick out up to the house in
the dip-net; then you'll be all right."

Evidently considering this warning sufficient to prevent any possible
trouble, he departed. John Brown seated himself in the armchair by the
door and gazed at the sea. He gazed and thought until he could bear to
think no longer; then he rose and entered the kitchen, where he kindled
a fire in the range and filled a kettle with water. Having thus made
ready the sacrificial altar, he took the long-handled dip-net from its
nail and descended the bluff to the wharf.

The lobster car, a good-sized affair of laths with a hinged cover
closing the opening in its upper surface, was floating under the wharf,