“Generally,” says Ira, “they send one of their boats down to meet company.  Now, if they was expectin’ you——­”

“That’s just it,” I breaks in, “they ain’t.  Fact is, Ira, there’s a young lady visitin’ there with her aunt, and—­and—­well, Aunty and me ain’t so chummy as we might be.”

“Just so,” says Ira, noddin’ wise.

“Now my plan was to go up there and kind of stick around, you know,” says I, “sort of in the shade, until the young lady strolled out.”

Ira shakes his head discouragin’.  “They’re mighty uppish folks,” says he.  “Got ‘No Trespass’ signs all over the place—­dogs too.”

“Hellup!” says I.  “What am I up against?  Why don’t Aunty travel with a bunch of gumshoe guards and be done with it?”

“Tell you what,” says Ira, struck by a stray thought, “if lookin’ the place over’ll do any good, you might go out with Eb Westcott this afternoon when he baits.  He’s got pots all around the point.”

That don’t mean such a lot to me; but my middle name is Brodie.  “Show me Eb,” says I.

He wa’n’t any thrillin’ sight, Eb; mostly rubber hip boots, flannel shirt, and whiskers.  He could have been cleaner.  So could his old tub of a lobster boat; but not 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!”