Then, if he eats the shells, he can't take in so many." "Eat de shells?
Yah, yah, yah! Dat beats my mudder! She's allers a-sayin' wot a waste de shells make," laughed Dick.

"I jest wish we might ketch some fish.

I dasn't kerry home no crabs." "It does look as if we'd got as many as we'll know what to do with," remarked Dab, as he looked down on the sprawling multitude in the bottom of the boat.

"We'll turn the clams out of the basket, and fill that; but we mustn't put any crabs in the fish-car.

We'll stow 'em all forward." The basket held more than half a bushel, but there was still a "heap" of what Ford Foster called "the crusties" to pen up in the bow of the boat.
That duty attended to, the grapnel was pulled up, and Dick was set at the oars, while Dab selected from Ford's box just the hooks and lines their owner had made least account of.
"What'll we catch, Dab ?" "'Most anything.