but Dab did
not start for the house with his mother and the rest. He even managed to
detain some of the empty lunch-baskets, large ones, too.

"Come on, Mr. Kinzer," shouted Joe Hart, "let's put for the village.
We'll starve here."

"A fellow that'd starve here just deserves to, that's all," said Dab.
"Ford, there's Bill Lee's boat and three others coming in. We're all
right. One of 'em's a dredger."

Ford and Frank could only guess what their friend was up to, but Dab was
not doing any guessing.

"Bill," he exclaimed, as Dick's father pulled within hearing,--"Bill,
put a lot of your best pan-fish in this basket and then go and fetch us
some lobsters. There's half a dozen in your pot. Did those others get
any luck?"

"More clams 'n 'ysters," responded Bill.

"Then we'll take both lots."

The respect of the city boys for the resources of the Long Island shore
began to rise rapidly a few minutes later, for not only was one of Dab's
baskets promptly provided with "pan-fish," such as porgies, black fish
and perch, but two others received all the clams and oysters they were
at all anxious to carry to the house. At the same time, Bill Lee
offered, as an amendment to the lobster question,

"Ye 'r' wrong about the pot, Dab."

"Wrong? Why--"

"Yes, you's wrong. Glorianny's been an' b'iled every one on 'em an' they
're all nice an' cold by this time."

"All right. I never eat my lobsters raw. Just you go and get them, Dick.
Bring 'em right over to Ford's house."

Bill Lee would have sent his house and all on a suggestion that the
Kinzers or Fosters were in need of it, and Dick would have carried it
over for him.

As for "Gloriana," when her son came running in with his errand, she
exclaimed:

"Dem lobsters? Sho! Dem aint good nuff. Dey sha'n't hab 'em. I'll jist
send de ole man all 'round de bay to git some good ones. On'y dey isn't
no kin' o' lobsters good nuff for some folks, dey isn't."

Dick insisted, however, and by the time he reached the back door of the
old Kinzer homestead with his load, that kitchen had become very nearly
as busy a place as Mrs. Miranda Morris's own, a few rods away.

"Ford," suddenly exclaimed Dab, as he finished scaling a large porgy,
"what if mother should make a mistake?"

"Make a mistake? How?"

"Cook that baby! It's awful!"

"Why, its mother's there."

"Yes, but they've put her to bed, and its father too. Hey, here come the
lobsters. Now, Ford--"

The rest of what he