“Might's well have a lobster tonight,” he said. “Ever cook a lobster, did you?” No, Mr. Brown had never cooked a lobster. “Well, it's simple enough. All you've got to do is bile him. Bile him in hot water till he's done.” “I see.” The substitute assistant was not enthusiastic. Cooking he did not love. “Humph!” he grunted. “I imagined if he was boiled at all, it was be in hot water, not cold.” Atkins chuckled. “I mean you want to have the water bilin' hot when you put him in,” he explained. “Wait till she biles up good and then souse him; see?” “I guess so. How do you know when he's done?” “Oh--er--I can't tell you. You'll have to trust to your instinct, I cal'late. When he looks done, he IS done, most gen'rally speakin'.” “Dear me! how clear you make it. Would you mind hintin' as to how he looks when he's done?” “Why--why, DONE, of course.” “Yes, of course. How stupid of me! He is done when he looks done, and when he looks done he is done. Any child could follow those directions. HOW is he done--brown?” “No. Brown! the idea! Red, of course. He's green when you put him in the kittle, and when you take him out, he's red. That's one way you can tell.” “Yes, that will help some. All right, I'll boil him till he's red, you needn't worry about that.” “Oh, I sha'n't worry. So long. I'll be back about six or so. Put him in when the water's good and hot, and you'll come out all right.” “Thank you. I hope HE will, but I have my doubts. Where is he?” “Who? the lobster? There's dozens down in the car by the wharf. Lift the cover and fish one out with the dip net. Pick out the biggest one you can find, 'cause I'm likely to be hungry when I get back, and your appetite ain't a hummin' bird's. There! I've got to go if I want to get anything done afore-- . . . Humph! never mind. So long.” He hurried away, as if conscious that he had said more than he intended. At the corner of the house he turned to call: “I say! Brown! be kind of careful when you dip him out. None of 'em are plugged.” “What?” “I say none of them lobsters' claws are plugged. I didn't have time to plug the last lot I got from my pots, so you want to handle 'em careful like, else they'll nip you. Tote the one you pick out up to the house in the dip-net; then you'll be all right.” Evidently considering this warning sufficient to prevent any possible trouble, he departed. John Brown seated himself in the armchair by the door and gazed at the sea. He gazed and thought until he could bear to think no longer; then he rose and entered the kitchen, where he kindled a fire in the range and filled a kettle with water. Having thus made ready the sacrificial altar, he took the long-handled dip-net from its nail and descended the bluff to the wharf.