212 ALBACORA 



no intention of trying to live on Scotch alone, we were 

 in trouble. 



"But we have enough water for a while," Lou said. 



"What about the water I need for washing?" I said. 



"Use sea water and a strong detergent," Lou sug- 

 gested. 



"What about my hair?" I said. "How am I going to 

 wash that?" 



"Sea water and a strong detergent," Lou repeated. 



That night I tried Lou's formula. It washed my hair 

 clean — clean of dirt, life and color. Then in the salt 

 water two cashmere sweaters curled up and almost died. 



"Lou," I said afterwards, "this is impossible." 



"Look," Lou said. "Let's just stick around a little 

 longer. We can keep roughing it for fun even though 

 we aren't doing much with the fish. Sure you look funny, 

 but so what? I'll grow a beard and . . ." 



That seemed to me to be sufficient. "My hair could 

 pass for an old Harpo Marx wig," I said. "I want a 

 beauty parlor. Every nail on both my hands has cracked. 

 I want a manicurist. My back hurts, my hip hurts and 

 my head hurts. I want to go to sleep on a mattress." 



Lou didn't say anything. 



"And don't you think it's about time you got back 

 to the office?" 



"Maybe you're right," Lou said, "but about 

 Bosco . . ." 



"If anyone catches Bosco this year," I said, "it's 

 going to turn out to be a skinny, undersized Indian 



