Mr. Bucklin, another Frog-End farmer, had a similar right, and he and his son Percival were that same afternoon talking about the expected harvest of kelp. Mr. Bucklin was saying that there was nothing to be gained by starting for the beach till the next morning, and that even then he couldn't go, as being one of the town's selectmen he would have some public business to attend to,--and Percival, a bright, strong, enterprising boy of sixteen, was insisting that their team ought to be on the shore by daylight, and that he would be there with it if he could get anybody to go with him, when the Elder twins came crossing fields and leaping fences, and finally tumbled over the bars into the yard where father and son were talking. "Uncle Mose says--" began Moke. "Wind's just right for the kelp," struck in Poke. "There'll be stacks of it," Moke exclaimed. "And we're going!" Poke continued. That was the way they usually did an errand or told a story,--one giving one fragment of a sentence, and his brother the next, if, indeed, they didn't both speak together. They ended with a proposition. Their father had gone to Portland with the team; and if Mr. Bucklin would let Perce take his tip-cart and yoke of steers, they would go with him, and all the sea-weed gathered by the three should be shared equally by the two farmers. "And what we want is----" said Moke. "To start after an early supper this evening," said Poke. "Camp to-night at the beach," Moke added. "And be on hand to begin work----" Poke added, contributing his link to the conversational chain. "As soon as the tide turns in the morning," rattled both together. Mr. Bucklin smiled indulgently. "I think your uncle is right," he said. "And I'm willing Perce should go. Though I don't know about your starting to-night to camp out." "Oh, yes!" exclaimed Percival, as eager for the adventure as if he had been a third twin and shared the enthusiasm of his two other selves. "That will be all the fun!" "We'll take some green corn----" said Moke. "And new potatoes----" said Poke. "And a sickle to cut grass----" Moke ran on. "And make a fire of driftwood----" Poke outstripped him. "For the steers," said Moke, finishing his own sentence, and not Poke's. "To roast 'em," concluded Poke, referring to the potatoes and green corn, and not to the steers. "It'll be just grand!" Percival exclaimed. "May we, father? The tide will turn about daylight; we'll have our breakfast on the beach, and be ready to go to work; and we'll haul two big heaps on the shore, one for us and one for them, and leave 'em till they're ready to draw away and spread on the land. May we, father?" "You're not so sure the kelp'll land," said the cautious farmer. "It's notional about it sometimes." "But if the wind keeps off shore it will!" said Moke and Poke, two voices for a single thought.