“What have you in the cockpit?” the Britisher asked curiously. “Clams for bait.” “Make ready to send them up.” “Why we couldn’t do that, sir, seein’s how we ain’t got more’n we’ll need for bait,” Abel cried as if in alarm, and playing the simple so well that the most suspicious must have been deceived. “Make ready to send them up, do you hear?” the officer cried sharply, and Abel, as if flustered by this stern command, danced around like one who has lost his senses as he gave this order and that to us lads, none of which could have been obeyed even if we had understood them. “You’ll have to send down a bag, if you count on takin’ what we’ve got, sir.” Abel whined. “We haven’t a blessed thing here to put ’em into.” The Britisher said something in a low tone to the half dozen grinning sailors who were craning their heads over the rail amidships, and by the time we had come alongside to where was hanging a ladder, two bags had been thrown aboard. “Gather ’em up,” Abel said to us as if his heart was breaking. “I’m allowin’ the gentlemen will pay a fair price for the clams; but we won’t have a chance to get any more till the tide turns, which will keep us down here another four an’ twenty hours.” “You’re fortunate if we don’t seize the whole outfit, instead of only a beggarly lot of clams,” the Britisher said angrily. “If I hear anything more about a price for them, you shall come aboard to wait till we can find out more about your craft.” It surely seemed as if this threat deprived Abel Grant of what little wit he had remaining, for he jumped around like a crazy man, helping us to gather the clams into the bags, as if believing his very life depended upon getting them aboard the frigate quickly. “Now be off with you,” the officer said when we had sent the full bags aboard, “and if you get fresh fish, come alongside when you go home. What’s doing in New York?” “I can’t say, sir, seein’s I don’t live there, an’ a big place like that ain’t for poor fishermen, except when they’ve got a cargo to sell.” “Where do you live?” “Nearabout Gowanus creek on Long Island.” [Illustration: “‘NEARABOUT GOWANUS CREEK ON LONG ISLAND.’”] We had already cast off from the frigate and were slipping slowly past her by the time this reply was given, and only then did I draw a natural breath, for it seemed certain we would be ordered aboard as prisoners. We were hailed by the ship astern, and before a question could be asked, Abel Grant shouted at the full strength of his lungs, as if trying to give the information to all the craft in the bay: “We’re bound outside fishin’, an’ haven’t got any clams, ’cause the man on that ’ere craft took all we had without ever payin’ a cent for ’em!”