The clams now came forth fast and furious. Muckle had found a place filled with them, and had heaped up his basket. Jiggins had a large pile on the sand, in front of which Pat had taken his station, and was vainly trying to keep up with Jiggins. But it was impossible, for Jiggins had found large numbers closely packed together. “What’s the matter over there?” said Muckle. “Have you filled your basket, Jiggins?” “Not yet. I’m busy filling Pat,” said Jiggins. “Hallo, Pat, you’re slow about it.” “Niver fare. Slow is it? Thin I’ll be up wid ye before long. On’y give me time, as the schoolmaster said when they wor examinin’ him on the alphabet.” “All right. But while I’m waiting, I’ll put these in the basket,” said Jiggins; and he began to fill his basket from the pile. “How can I ate them when you’re putting them in the basket?” said Pat. “I’ll dig up plenty more--enough to keep you going.” But Jiggins was tired; and after digging up some more he found the sand tinged red. To his amazement he saw that his nails were worn away, and were now bleeding. His fingers’ ends began to smart with acute pain, and he was compelled to desist. “I think I’ll be off,” said he. “Pat, you may eat from the basket.” “From the basket, is it? Not a bit of it,” said Pat; “I’ll only eat from your scratching.” “I’ve scratched the basket full for you, and that’s enough. In fact it’s too much,” he added, as he felt fresh stings on his finger tips. “Besides, I’ve my doubts about it.” “Yer doubts, is it? and again? An’ what for this time?” “Well, you see, I’m afraid it’s not altogether fair to you.” “You’re a quare bird, wid yer doubts, an’ that’s all about it,” said Pat. They then went back to the bank, where a bright fire was burning, and the pot was all ready, with sea-water boiling in it. Into this they threw the clams; and sitting down around the fire, they waited. Pat sat in silence. There was a peculiar expression on his face. He grew moody and preoccupied. Frequent sighs escaped him. “What’s the matter, Pat?” asked Jiggins. “O, nothin’.” Pat struggled against his secret grief most valiantly, but soon he could struggle no longer. A deep groan burst from him, and he fell back doubled up and writhing. His face was deadly pale, and big drops of perspiration stood on his brow. In his pain he rolled over and over, and moans and low cries escaped him. “It’s the clams!” cried Jiggins. “O, I knew it. I had my doubts about it all the time.” “What can we do?” cried Johnny. “We’ll have to get him up to Captain Pratt’s,” said Muckle: But for a long time they could do nothing. He writhed and struggled so that he could not be moved. At last Johnny Blue ran up for Mrs. Pratt. The good lady came down with a basket full of infallible remedies, and tended poor Pat for some time. At last he was easier, and they managed to get him up to the house, and put him in bed.