“How is he?”one of the fishermen shouted.
Up the road, in his shack, the old man was sleeping again.He was still sleeping on his face and the boy was sitting by him watching him.The old man was dreaming about the lions.
“Nothing,”he said aloud.“ I went out too far.”
“No.I am not lucky.I am not lucky anymore.”
“They beat me, Manolin,”he said.“They truly beat me.”
“Do you want a drink of any kind?”the proprietor asked.
“You keep it if you want it.”
“Did they search for me?”
“Don't forget to tell Pedrico the head is his.”
“And the spear?”
He tried to get up.But it was too difficult and he sat there with the mast on his shoulder and looked at the road.A cat passed on the far side going about its business and the old man watched it.Then he just watched the road.
“Plenty,”the old man said.
That afternoon there was a party of tourists at the Terrace and looking down in the water among the empty beer cans and dead barracudas a woman saw a great long white spine with a huge tail at the end that lifted and swung with the tide while the east wind blew a heavy steady sea outside the entrance to the harbor.
“He didn't beat you.Not the fish.”
“He was eighteen feet from nose to tail,”the fisherman who was measuring him called.