awing a punt concealed under some marsh brush, young Levin pushed off
to his vessel, made her tidy by a few changes, pulled up the jib, and
brought her in to the bank.

"Mr. Johnson, I never ketched tarrapin of a Sunday befo', but I reckon
tain't no harm."

"Harm? what's that?" Joe Johnson sneered. "Hark ye, boy, no funking with
me now! When I begin with a kinchin cove I starts squar. If ye think
it's wicked to ketch tarrapin, why, I want 'em caught. If you _don't_
keer, you kin jest stick up yer sail an' pint for Deil's Island, an'
we'll make it a woyige!"

Not quite clear as to his instructions, Levin took the tiller, and Jack
Wonnell superserviceably got the terrapin tongs, and stood in the bow
while the cat-boat skimmed down Monie Creek before a good breeze and a
lee tide. The chain dredge for terrapin was thrown over the side, but
the boat made too much sail for Wonnell to take more than one or two
tardy animals with his tongs, as they hovered around the transparent
bottoms making ready for their winter descent into the mud.

"Take up your dredge," Johnson commanded in a few minutes. "It makes us
go slow."

Jack Wonnell obediently made a few turns on the windlass, and as the bag
came up, two terrapin of the then common diamond-back variety rolled on
the deck, and a skilpot.

"That's enough tarrapins," Johnson said, "unless you're afraid it's
doin' wrong, Levin. Say, spooney! is it wicked now?"

The boy laughed, a little pale of face, and Johnson closed his remark
with:

"Nawthin' ain't wicked! Sunday is dustman's day to be broke by heroes.
D'ye s'pose yer daddy on the privateer wouldn't lick the British of a
Sunday? The way to git rich, sonny, is to break all the commandments at
the post, an' pick 'em up agin at the score!"

"That's the way, sho' as you're born. Whoop! Johnson, you got it right!"
chuckled Jack Wonnell, not clear as to what was said.

Levin Dennis felt a little shudder pass through him, but he gave the
stranger the helm, and by Wonnell's aid raised the main-sheet, and the
light boat went winging across Monie Bay, starting the water-fowl as it
tacked through them.

"Here's another swig all round," Joe Johnson exclaimed, "and then I'll
go below to lollop an hour, for I'm bloody lush."

Levin drank again, and it took the shuddering instinct out of him, and
Joe Johnson cried, as he disappeared into the little cabin:

"Ree-collect! You pint her for Deil's Island thoroughfare, and wake me,