in spots with brown yarn, remained presented imperturbable to Varge.
"Good-morning," Varge repeated, raising his voice, and stepping nearer.
The old fisherman turned his head slowly and squinted at Varge.
"Haow?" He jabbed a gnarled forefinger at his ear. "I be a mite deef."
Varge promptly sat down on the sand, drew up his legs, clasped his hands around his knees—and smiled into the crimped surface of bronzed wrinkles that made the other's face. He liked the puckered little nest of lines at the corners of the old fellow's eyes, and the lurking twinkle in the blue depths of the eyes themselves under the shaggy grey brows.
Varge's smile was contagious.
"Fine mornin'! Fine mornin'!" said the old man, in a high, piping voice; then in cautious amendment: "But I dunno but what we'll have wind. Kind o' looks to me as though we would. 'Baout due naou—allus got the rheumatiz in my knee 'fore a down-easter."
Varge nodded gravely in agreement. The sky and sea were a glorious blue; the sun just creeping over the world's edge kissed the tops of the long, smooth rollers, transforming them into undulating, gleaming streaks of burnished gold. Not a speck, not a cloud showed clear to the horizon rim. Again Varge nodded gravely; then:
"I saw you working down here on the beach," he said. "I'm a stranger here, and I thought perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me a few things I want to know."
"Lord!" said the old fellow simply. "I don't mind. What might it be you want to know?"
