"Guess we've drawn a blank this time, Max," he remarked, when the
seventeenth bivalve failed to yield up any gleaming little milk-white
prize.

"Oh! that isn't a dead sure thing," replied the other, never ready to yield
his hopeful spirit, "this is a lottery, you know. The pearls are to be
found. We know that, Steve, by our first success. If not in this lot,
perhaps in what our chums bring later. There are other days to follow; and
we're bound to put in a week trying our luck."

That was the sort of talk to buoy up Steve's spirits. He was always an
impulsive chap, and had often been called "Touch-and-Go Steve," because of
his quick temper. It had many times carried him into serious trouble,
though, as is usually the case with these impetuous fellows, Steve always
quickly repented of his wrath, and was apt to apologize.

"Here goes for the eighteenth," he remarked, picking up another mussel, and
setting to work industriously.

"This is a scrawny looking one, and I just reckon it'll be time wasted,"
he added.

"You never can tell," laughed Max, himself busily engaged.

"That's so," Steve went on; "because they do say these precious little
pearls are manufactured by the oyster or mussel to cover up some gritty
object that has managed to work into the shell, and which they just can't
eject."

"Yes, that's the accepted theory," Max asserted.