Dab Kinzer: A Story of a Growing Boy by William O. Stoddard (reading books for 6 year olds .TXT) 📖

scow, a good deal.

"Reckon it's all right," said Dick as he shoved off. "It'd be an awful risk to trus' dem nice clo'es in de ole boat, suah."

Nice clothes, nice boats, a good many other nice things, were as yet beyond the reach of Dick Lee; but he was quite likely to catch as many crabs as his more aristocratic neighbors.

As for Dabney Kinzer and his friend from the city, they were on their way to the water-side, after all, at an hour which indicated either smaller appetites than usual or greater speed at the breakfast-table.

"Plenty of boats, I should say," remarked Ford, as he surveyed the little "landing" and its vicinity with the air of a man who had a few fleets of his own. "All sorts. Any of 'em fast?"

"Not many," said Dab. "The row-boats, big and little, have to be built so they will stand pretty rough water."

"How are the sail-boats?"

"Same thing. There's Ham Morris's yacht."

"That? Why, she's as big as any in the lot."

"Bigger; but she don't show it."

"Can't we take a cruise in her?" asked Ford.

"Any time. Ham lets me use her whenever I like. She's fast enough, but she's built so she'll stand 'most any thing. Safe as a house if she's handled right."

"Handled!"

Ford Foster's expression of face would have done honor to the Secretary of the Navy, or the Chairman of the Naval Affairs Committee in Congress, or any other perfect seaman, Noah included. It seemed to say,—

"As if any boat could be otherwise than well sailed, with me on board!"

Dabney, however, even while he was talking, had been hauling in from its "float and grapnel," about ten yards out at low water, the very stanch-looking little yawl-boat that called him owner. She was just such a boat as Mrs. Kinzer would naturally have provided for her boy,—stout, well-made, and sensible,—without any bad habits of upsetting or the like. Not too large for Dabney to manage all alone, "The Jenny," as he called her, and as her name was painted on the stern, was all the better for having two on board, and had room in her then for more.

"The inlet's pretty narrow for a long reach through the marsh," said Dabney, "and as crooked as a ram's horn. I'll steer, and you pull, till we're out o' that, and then I'll take the oars."

"I might as well row out to the crab-grounds," said Ford, as he pitched his coat forward, and took his seat at the oars. "All ready?"

"Ready," said Dab; and "The Jenny" glided gracefully away from the landing with the starting-push he gave her.

Ford Foster had had oars in his hands before, but his experience had been limited to a class of vessels different in some respects from the one he was in now.

He was short of something, at all events. It may have been skill, or it may have been legs or discretion; but, whatever was lacking, at the third or fourth stroke the oar-blades went a little too deeply below the smooth surface of the water. There was a vain tug, a little out of "time;" and then there was a boy on the bottom of the boat, and a pair of well-polished shoes lifted high in the air.

"You've got it," shouted Dabney.

"Got what?" exclaimed an all-but angry voice from down there between the seats.

"Caught the first 'crab,'" replied Dabney: "that's what we call it. Can you steer? Guess I'd better row."

"No, you won't," was the very resolute reply, as Ford regained his seat and his oars. "I sha'n't catch any more crabs of that sort. I'm a little out of practice, that's all."

"I should say you were, a little. Well, it won't hurt you. 'Tisn't much of a pull."

Ford would have pulled it now if he had blistered all the skin off his hands in doing so; and he did very creditable work for some minutes, among the turns and windings of the narrow inlet.

"Here we are," shouted Dabney at last. "We are in the inlet yet, but it widens out into the bay."

"That's the bay, out yonder?"

"Yes; and the island between that and the ocean's no better'n a mere bar of sand."

"How d'you get past it?"

"Right across there, almost in a straight line. We'll run it next week in Ham's yacht. Splendid weak-fishing right in the mouth of that inlet, on the ocean side."

"Hurrah!" exclaimed Ford, "I'm in for that. Is the bay deep?"

"Not very," replied Dabney; "but it gets pretty rough sometimes."

Ford was getting pretty red in the face just then, with his unaccustomed exercise; and his friend added,—

"You needn't pull so hard: we're almost there. Hullo! if there isn't Dick Lee, in his dry-goods box. That boat'll drown him some day, and his dad too. But just see him pull in crabs!"

Ford came near "catching" one more as he tried to turn around for the look proposed, exclaiming,—

"Dab, let's get to work as quick as we can. They might go away."

"Might fly?"

"No; but don't they go and come?"

"Well, you go and drop the grapnel over the bows, and we'll see 'em come in pretty quick."

The grapnel, or little anchor, was thrown over quickly enough; and the two boys were in such an eager haste that they had hardly a word to say to Dick, though he was now but a few rods away.

Now, it happened that when Ford and Dab came down to the water that morning, each of them had brought a load. The former had only a neat little japanned tin box, about as big as his head; and the latter, besides his oars, carried a seemingly pretty heavy basket.

"Lots of lunch, I should say," had been Ford's mental comment; but he had not thought it wise to ask questions.

"Plenty of lunch in that box," thought Dab at the same moment, but only as a matter of course.

And they were both wrong. Lunch was the one thing they had both forgotten.

But the box and the basket.

Ford Foster came out, of his own accord, with the secret of the box; for he now took a little key out of his pocket, and unlocked it with an air of—

"Look at this, will you?"

Dab Kinzer looked, and was very sure he had never before seen quite such an assortment of brand-new fish-hooks, of many sorts and sizes, and of fish-lines which looked as if they had thus far spent their lives on dry land.

"Tip-top," he remarked. "I see a lot of things we can use one of these days, but there isn't time to go over 'em now. Let's go for the crabs. What made you bring your box along?"

"Oh!" replied Ford, "I left my rods at home, both of 'em. You don't s'pose I'd go for crabs with a rod, do you? But you can take your pick of hooks and lines."

"Crabs? Hooks and lines?"

"Why, yes. You don't mean to scoop 'em up in that landing-net, do you?"

Dab looked at his friend for a moment in blank amazement, and then the truth broke upon him for the first time.

"Oh, I see! You never caught any crabs. Well, just you lock up your jewellery-box, and I'll show you."

It was not easy for Dab to keep from laughing in Ford Foster's face; but his mother had not given him so many lessons in good-breeding for nothing, and Ford was permitted to close his ambitious "casket" without any worse annoyance than his own wounded pride gave him.

But now came out the secret of the basket.

The cover was jerked off; and nothing was revealed but a varied assortment of clams, large and small, but mostly of good size,—tough old customers, that no amount of roasting or boiling would ever have prepared for human eating.

"What are they for,—bait?"

"Yes, bait, weight, and all."

"How's that?"

Dabney's reply was to draw from his pocket a couple of long, strong cords, bits of old fishing-lines. He cracked a couple of clams one against the other; tied the fleshy part of one to each of the cords; tied bits of shell on, a foot or so from the ends, for sinkers; handed one cord to Ford, took the other himself, and laid the long-handled scoop-net he had brought with him down between them, saying,—

"Now we're ready. Drop your clam down to the bottom, and it won't be half a minute before you feel something pull on it. Then you draw it up gently,—steady as you know how. You mustn't jerk the crab loose. You'll get the knack of it in five minutes. It's all knack. There isn't any thing else so stupid as a crab."

Ford watched carefully, and obeyed in silence the directions he had received.

In a minute or so more the operation of the scoop-net was called for, and the fun began.

"You got him!" exclaimed Ford in a loud whisper, as he saw Dab quickly plunge the net into the water, and then shake out of it into the bottom of the boat a great sprawling "blue-legged" crab. "He's a whopper!"

"He'll do for one."

"There's one on mine! I declare, he's let go!"

"You jerked the clam away from him. Sink it again. He's mad about it.
He'll take right hold again."

"He's pulling now, or it's another one."

"Let him pull. Lift him easy. Long as he thinks he's stealing something, he'll hold on. There he comes,—see him?"

Ford saw the white flesh of the clam coming slowly up through the water, and he held his breath; for just behind and below it was a sprawling shadowy something that was tugging with all its might at that tough shell-fish.

"It's an awful big one!"

"Shall I scoop him?"

"No, indeed: I want to scoop him myself. I saw how you did it."

Splash went the net, as the prize came nearer the surface; and Ford began, somewhat excitedly, to shake it all over the bottom of the boat.

"Why, where's that crab? You don't mean to say he was quick enough to dodge away?"

"Quick? well, no, that isn't just the trouble. I forgot to tell you to scoop way under him. You hit him, square, and knocked him ever so far. The water deceives your eyes. Drive the net under him quick, and then lift. I've got one—now just you see how I scoop."

Ford felt dreadfully disappointed over the loss of his first crab, but the rapidity with which he caught the "knack of it" after that was a great credit to him. He did not miss the next one he pulled up.

It was great fun; but it had its slack moments, and in one of these Dab suddenly exclaimed,—

"The young black rascal! If he hasn't gone and got a sheep's-head!"

"A sheep's-head?"

They were both staring at the old punt, where Dick Lee was apparently enjoying the most extraordinary good fortune.

"Yes, that's it. That's why he beats us so badly. They're a sight better'n clams, only you can't always get one. I wonder where he picked up that one."

"But how he does pull 'em in!"

"We're doing well enough," began Dabney, when suddenly there came a shrill cry of pain from the black boy's punt.

"He's barefooted," shouted Dab, with, it must be confessed, something like a grin; "and one of the little pirates has pinned him with his nippers."

That was the difficulty exactly, and there need not have been any very serious result of such an expression of a crab's bad temper. But Dick Lee was more than ordinarily averse to any thing like physical pain, and the crab which now had him by the toe was a very muscular and vicious specimen of his quarrelsome race.

The first consequence of that vigorous nip was a momentary dance up and down in the punt, accompanied by exclamatory howls from Dick, but not by a word of any sort from the crab.

The next consequence was, that the crab let go; but so at the same instant, did the rotten board in the boat-bottom, upon which Dick Lee had so rashly danced.

It let go of the rest of the boat so suddenly that poor Dick had only time for one tremendous yell, as it let him right down through to his armpits.

The water was perfectly smooth; but the boat