and we about to eat some scraps of corned-beef, and cold clams, and then, when our mouths are all watering, you say you snapshotted 'em! Snapshotted 'em! You ought to be made eat some fricasseed clam shells, Beeby."
"Why—why, didn't you want me to take a picture of 'em?" asked the stout youth, blankly.
"Take a picture of 'em? Why, in the name of the sacred cat, didn't you shoot some for dinner?" asked Dick.
"I—I didn't have the rifle. But I'll go back and see if I can pot some. There are hundreds of 'em."
"No, we'll have grub first, and then we'll see what we can do. It sounds good, and I guess, after all, you're entitled to a vote of thanks, Innis, for discovering them."
Dick and Beeby went hunting that afternoon, and the young millionaire, who was a good shot with the rifle, managed to get a number of the plump birds. They were roasted, and furnished a good supper, while a quantity of the cooked fowl were put aboard the raft for future use.
The next morning, bidding farewell to the desolate island, where they had been marooned for nearly a week, the little party floated the raft at high tide, got aboard, and, hoisting the rude sail, while Widdy steered with a sweep, which he had improvised from a sapling, and a board from a box, they set off—for where they did not know.
