2o8 ALONGSHORE iv 



very silent darkness began to take possession of 

 Western Bay. But out to sea, where the sun's 

 rays still reached, or were reflected from the thin 

 evening clouds, the water was of a delicate pink 

 and blue, most ethereal, most fairylike — the 

 ghost of colour rather than colour itself. While 

 Benjle sat In the boat bare-armed, with only his 

 flannel on (little he minds the cold), talking of 

 his copper bolts and again of the old times, I had 

 a laughable notion that he was some grotesque old 

 fairy that had floated in from the offing to tell 

 of what was in a place that didn't exist. Not 

 that he wasn't the same old Benjie, tattered and 

 patched, hard and weather-beaten. But memory 

 has a way, sometimes, of shining through old men's 

 faces; of making them a lamp by means of which 

 the past throws a glamour over the present. It so 

 shone through Benjie's face then. Is it not the 

 kindliest joke time plays on old men, to make 

 reality flow backwards? 



Beaching the boat was like waking up. She 

 was overheavy. Her cut-rope parted as soon 

 as the capstan hauled it taut. There was a 

 deal more cussing and not a little chaff. To 

 lighten her, Benjie carried his wreckage up the 

 beach and flung it down. And there he left it. 



