“I know it,”the boy said.“I'll be right back. Have another coffee.We have credit here.”

“Your stew is excellent,”the old man said.

“Very well,Manolin,”the old man said.“ I feel confident today.”

“I know.But this is in bottles,Hatuey beer,and I take back the bottles.”

The boy was back now with the sardines and the two baits wrapped in a newspaper and they went down the trail to the skiff,feeling the pebbled sand under their feet,and lifted the skiff and slid her into the water.

“I know.It was a great mistake.He might have gone with us.Then we would have that for all of our lives.”

The old man opened his eyes and for a moment he was coming back from a long way away.Then he smiled.

He was asleep in a short time and he dreamed of Africa when he was a boy and the long golden beaches and the white beaches,so white they hurt your eyes,and the high capes and the great brown mountains.He lived along that coast now every night and in his dreams he heard the surf roar and saw the native boats come riding through it.He smelled the tar and oakum of the deck as he slept and he smelled the smell of Africa that the land breeze brought at morning.

“I thanked him already,”the boy said.“You don't need to thank him.”