“Biggest ’un we ever caught, Dad,” the younger one said, and both broke into laughter as they pried the lathes from around his back and ribs.

The son took Nathaniel’s hands in his (they were solid with calluses, their grip so strong they seemed capable of crushing a lobster’s shell with one squeeze) and pulled him to his feet.

Standing, he tried to recover his dignity, but that was impossible, in the gusts of humiliating laughter.

“Lordy, reckon ye yachtsmen ain’t usta the deck of a workin’ boat,” said the father.

With his whole being, Nathaniel wanted to say that he wasn’t used to sloppy captains who allowed fish oil to spill on their decks, but his better judgment was in full operating order, for a change.

Kneeling over the live well, he gazed down into a nightmare of twitching feelers and claws and cold, beady, lifeless eyes—how could anything so ugly taste so fine? he wondered. His hand sheathed in canvas nippers, he snatched a lobster by its carapace and dropped it into a big mesh sack held open by the younger fisherman. He went for another, but was a little off his aim and felt the claws prick him, even through the gloves. “Gotta watch ’em, they take yer finger fer dinnah, grab ye by the balls, ye be singin’ like a girl,” said the young one merrily.

With the twenty stuffed into two sacks, Nathaniel handed the five-dollar bill to the older man, who gave it a snap and then slipped it into his pocket. When it did not appear forthcoming, he asked for the change. The fisherman’s glance fell on the broken lobster trap.

“Figger fifty cents fer materials, fifty more fer my labor, buildin’ it,” he declared.

“Wait a minute. I didn’t break it on purpose.”

“Still be broke, and ’twasn’t me fell on it, ’twasn’t Toby. ’Twas ye.”

It wasn’t his money, Nathaniel protested. He was running an errand. He had to bring back a dollar in change. The fisherman paused, contemplated his slippery deck briefly, and then gave Nathaniel a choice: He could go up to the shack, where there were lathes and ribs, hammer and nails, and the two-chambered nets that made a trap a trap, and build one to replace the one he’d broken. Did he know how to build a trap? He did not. Don’t teach that in school, do they? All right, the old man said, and squeezed Nathaniel’s biceps and shoulders and pronounced him strong enough. Had fifteen, sixteen traps left in his string; if Nathaniel pulled them for him, he would consider the dollar debt paid off. Besides, his son Toby had been pullin’ all mornin’ and could use a rest.

“How long will that take?”—Nathaniel, peevishly.

“Got somewheres ta go?”

“Matter of fact, I do. I’m expected at dinner. To eat one of these.”