Девять рассказов

           Aboutfifteenfeetforwardshipfromthefirstrowofdeckchairs,andeighteenortwentyrathersun-blindingfeetoverhead,ayoungmanwassteadilywatchinghimfromtheSportsDeckrailing.Thishadbeengoingonforsometenminutes.Itwasevidentthattheyoungmanwasnowreachingsomesortofdecision,forheabruptlytookhisfootdownfromtherailing.Hestoodforamoment,stilllookinginTeddy’sdirection,thenwalkedaway,outofsight.Notaminutelater,though,heturnedup,obtrusivelyvertical,amongthedeck-chairranks.Hewasaboutthirty,oryounger.Hedirectlystartedtomakehiswaydown-aisletowardTeddy’schair,castingdistractinglittleshadowsoverthepagesofpeople’snovelsandsteppingratheruninhibitedly(consideringthathiswastheonlystanding,movingfigureinsight)overknittingbagsandotherpersonaleffects.

           Teddyseemedobliviousofthefactthatsomeonewasstandingatthefootofhischair—or,forthatmatter,castingashadowoverhisnotebook.Afewpeopleintherowortwobehindhim,however,weremoredistractible.Theylookedupattheyoungmanas,perhaps,onlypeopleindeckchairscanlookupatsomeone.Theyoungmanhadakindofpoiseabouthim,though,thatlookedasthoughitmightholdupindefinitely,withtheverysmallprovisothathekeepatleastonehandinonepocket."Hello,there!"hesaidtoTeddy.

           Teddylookedup."Hello,"hesaid.Hepartlyclosedhisnotebook,partlyletitclosebyitself.

           "MindifIsitdownaminute?"theyoungmanasked,withwhatseemedtobeunlimitedcordiality.