Then he expressed his feelings aloud and with emphasis.
Five minutes later he got another, but it was too small to be of use.

In twenty minutes he netted three more, two of which got away.

The third, however, he dragged pantingly to the wharf and sat beside it, gloating.
It was his for keeps, and it was a big one, the great-grandaddy of lobsters.

Its claws clashed and snapped at the twine of the net like a pair of giant nut crackers.
Carrying it as far from his body as its weight at the end of the handle would permit, he bore it in triumph to the kitchen.

To boil a lobster alive had seemed a mean trick, and cruel, when Seth Atkins first ordered him to do it.