HE walked fast. I followed him with reluctant footsteps. What did I care for clam-bakes or any other new-fangled vegetable while he was by my side?

The crowd were all around that heap of sea-weed when we came up. Men, women, Irish help, and nig—well, colored freemen, with eager eyes and open mouths, were waiting for the sail-cloth to be taken off. On the grass, under the trees, a great long table was set out with plates, glasses, castors, and things. At the end, two pails of ice, with the necks of a dozen bottles peeping up like hungry birds in a nest, stood ready for somebody to uncork.

Well, the nig—freedman gave that sail a jerk, and a cloud of salty steam rolled up from the sea-grass. Then he raked away a winrow of that, dug out a pail of melted butter and vinegar, and held a lobster up by one claw, looking red as a British soldier's jacket. The creature had given up fighting, and hung in his hand meek as Moses. The poor thing was green enough when he went in, but came out blazing red and steaming hot.

More sea-weed; chickens dripping with gravy; heaps of corn; potatoes, mealy, and broken open; fish, and then those longish-round shell things, heaped in plates and dishes, were carried off to the table. We followed those dishes; we sat down to eat. Those longish hard-shelled creatures had all burst open, and something that smelt delicious lay inside, with black heads sticking out.

I watched to see what the rest did with those animals, then seized one by the head, drew him out, soused him in the melted butter, and dropped him softly into my open mouth.

"Delicious, scrumptious, beyond anything I ever ate in my life," says I, when Mr. Burke leaned toward me and wanted to know how I liked it. "But what are these black-headed things with shells, called?"

"Oh, soft-shells—the best part of the clam-bake, I think," says he.

"I reckon you are right," says I, taking another little fellow by the nape of the neck, and biting him off at the shoulders. Then I drank a glass of the sparklingest cider you ever tasted, and went in for an ear of corn, smoking hot, and the breast of a chicken.

Mr. Burke wanted me to eat some of the red lobster, but the thought of it made me creep all over, so I asked to be excused, and said I preferred a dozen or two more soft-shells.

There was a good deal of first-rate cider drank around that table, and we left a bushel of open shells under the trees, besides a heap of lobsters, clams, and chicken bones, well picked.

Then we went back to look at the place where they had been cooked, and found nothing but a heap of smoking stones, a ring of burnt grass, and a pile of steamy sea-weed. Somehow, the sight of it all made me feel sort of faint, and it didn't seem to me that I should ever want to eat or drink again.

We went home from Pleasure Bay in the carriage, feeling lazy and kind of half sea-sick.

That night I dreamed that a whole regiment of green lobsters were crawling over my bed, clawing at me fiercely as they went. Then I thought that Mr. Burke came and shoved them off with both arms flung out, and invited me to breakfast on a heap of empty shells, dipped in butter, which set awful heavy on my stomach.

In fact, I had a worrying night, and got up feeling as if I had been feasting on tenpenny nails and roasted flat-irons.