They walked down the road to the old man's shack and all along the road,in the dark,barefoot men were moving, carrying the masts of their boats.
“Your stew is excellent,”the old man said.
“Should we talk about Africa or about baseball?”
“Who is the greatest manager,really,Luque or Mike Gonzalez?”
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 thanked him already,”the boy said.“You don't need to thank him.”
“I'll give him the belly meat of a big fish,”the old man said.“ Has he done this for us more than once?”
“He used to come to the Terrace sometimes too in the older days.But he was rough and harsh-spoken and difficult when he was drinking.His mind was on horses as well as baseball.At least he carried lists of horses at all times in his pocket and frequently spoke the names of horses on the telephone.”