t while he stuck to that partic'lar line of
business, I guess. And, say, I know now what baitin' is. It's haulin'
up lobster pots from the bottom of the ocean and decoratin' 'em inside
with fish--ripe fish, at that. The scheme is to lure the lobsters into
the pot. Seems to work too; but I guess a lobster ain't got any sense
of smell.

"Better put on some old clothes fust," advised Eb, and as I always like
to dress the part I borrows a moldy suit of oilskins from Ira,
includin' one of these yellow sea bonnets, and climbs aboard.

It's a one-lunger putt-putt--and take it from me the combination of
gasolene and last Tuesday's fish ain't anything like _Eau d'Espagne_!
Quite different! Also I don't care for that jumpy up and down motion
one of these little boats gets on, specially after pie and beans for
breakfast. Then Eb hands me the steerin' ropes while he whittles some
pressed oakum off the end of a brunette plug and loads his pipe. More
perfume comin' my way!

"Ever try smokin' formaldehyde?" says I.

"Gosh, no!" says Eb. "What's it like?"

"You couldn't tell the difference," says I.

"We git tin tags off'm Sailor's Pride," says Eb. "Save up fifty, and
you git a premium."

"You ought to," says I, "and a pension for life."

"Huh!" says Eb. "It's good eatin' too, Ever chaw any?" and he holds
out the plug invitin'.

"Don't tempt me," says I. "I promised my dear old grandmother I
wouldn't."

"Lookin' a little peaked, ain't you!" says he. "Most city chaps do
when they fust come; but after 'bout a month of this----"

"Chop it, Eb!" says I. "I'm feelin' unhappy enough as it is. A month
of this? Ah, say!"

After awhile we begun stoppin' to bait. Eb would shut off the engine,
run up to a float, haul in a lot of clothesline, and fin'lly pull up an
affair that's a cross between a small crockery crate and an openwork
hen-coop. Next he'd grab a big needle and string a dozen or so of the
gooey fish on a cord. I watched once. After that I turned my back.
By way of bein' obligin', Eb showed me how to roll the flywheel and
start the engine. He said I was a heap stronger in the arms than I
looked, and he didn't mind lettin' me do it right along. Friendly old
yap, Eb was. I kept on rollin' the wheel.

So about three P. M., as we was workin' our way along the shore, Eb
looks up and remarks, "Here's the Hollister place, Roarin' Rocks."

Sure enough there it was, almost like the postcard picture, only