ALBACORA 79 



turing dramatically with my handkerchief, I sang in 

 the huskiest tone I could invoke. There was a small 

 gathering of what I believed to be "admirers" grouped 

 around the piano, and since this was long ago, Lou was 

 right in the very first row. 



" 'Along came Bill,' " I sang, " 'an ordinary 

 guy . . .'" 



At the door an apparition appeared. 



" 'You'd meet him on the street and never notice 

 him . . .'" 



People were turning away from me toward the figure 

 at the door. I was losing my audience. 



" 'His form and face,' " I sang louder. " 'His manly 

 grace . . .' " 



Now even Lou was turning away. 



" 'Are not the kind that . . .' " Then the pianist quit 

 and it was go it alone or stop singing. I was younger 

 then and less confident. I stopped. Then I stared at the 

 intruder with all the fury of a woman, perhaps not 

 scorned, but certainly ignored. The figure, wearing 

 soaking dark oilskins, moved further into the room and 

 shouted, "Tuna off to the nor'east. Jerry just came back 

 and he seen 'em. Out near Shrewsbury Rock. Let's go." 

 The intruder was Clint Thorne. He was the captain of 

 our little second-hand boat. 



"Tuna?" Lou echoed. "Big ones?" 



"Yeah," Thorne said. "A whole big school of 'em." 



Lou, as every other man at the party, was wearing a 



