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           Apalecookinwhitecapandapronleanedhisbarearmsontherailandlookeddownintothetroubledwaterandoccasionallyhespatintotheroil.Thewindwasinshore.Itbroughtfromthedredgerthestinkofmudandlong-deadshellsandtarnishedweedtogetherwiththesweetsmellofbakingcinnamoninapplepie.Thegreataugerturnedwithmajesty,boringoutthechannel.

           Thenwithaflashofpinkthesailsofalitheyachtcaughttheafterglowandcameaboutandlostthelight.IwanderedbackandturnedleftpastthenewmarinaandtheoldyachtclubandtheAmericanLegionHallwithbrown-paintedmachinegunsmountedbesideitssteps.

           Attheboatyardtheywereworkinglatetryingtogetthestoredcraftpaintedandreadyagainstthecomingsummer.Theunusualcoldoftheearlyspringhadsetthembackwiththepaintingandvarnishing.

           Iwalkedwellpasttheboatworksandthendownthroughtheweed-grownlottotheharbor’sedgeandthenslowlybacktowardDanny’slean-toshack.AndIwhistledanoldtuneagainsthiswishingmeto.

           Anditseemedhedid.HisshackwasemptybutIknewassurelyasifIsawhimthatDannywaslyinghiddenintheweeds,perhapsbetweenthehugesquaretimbersthatwerescatteredabout.AndsinceIknewhewouldcomebackassoonasIwasgone,ItookthebrownenvelopefrommypocketandproppeditonhisdirtybedandIwentaway,stillwhistling,exceptforonemomentwhenIcalledsoftly,"Good-by,Danny.Goodluck."