"Just as you say," Max continued.

"What d'ye take that kettle for!" asked Steve.

"To hold the mussels as we get 'em out. Let the meat and juice drop in
here. Then we'll examine the whole thing several times for results. And
don't forget, both Toby and Bandy-legs made us promise to have a mess of
these same fresh-water clams cooked for supper."

So, taking the vessel and the much-used oyster knife, Max squatted on the
ground tailor fashion alongside the pile of shellfish.

Both of them set to work, Max calmly, as was his wont, but Steve showing
the greatest nervousness.

Finding that his method of trying to open the stubborn bivalves was
awkward, as they could not be handled like oysters, Max took a second
knife. Placing the mussel in an upright position he would drive the blade
down between the two shells by giving it several sharp taps with a piece of
wood. When the stubborn mussel finally yielded to this treatment Max was
able to turn back one shell, and then scrape out the entire contents of the
other.

A dozen had been opened presently, and so far as they could see, there was
not a sign of a pearl, large or small.

Steve's disappointment made itself manifest in the look that gradually
crept over his face.