Theoldmahebladeofhisknifeandlaiddowntheoar.Thenhefoundthesheetandthesailfilledandhebroughttheskiffontohercourse.

“Theymusthavetakenaquarterofhimandofthebestmeat，”hesaidaloud.“IwishitwereadreamandthatIhadneverhookedhim.I’msorryaboutit，fish.Itmakeseverythingwrong.”Hestoppedandhedidnotwanttolookatthefishnow.Drainedofbloodandawashhelookedthecolorofthesilverbagofamirrorandhisstripesstillshowed.

“Ishouldn’thavegosofar，fish，”hesaid.“herforyounorforme.I’msorry，fish.”

Now，hesaidtohimself.Looktothelashingontheknifeahasbeencut.Theyourhandinorderbecausetherestillismoretoe.

“IwishIhadastohekheoldmansaidafterhehadcheckedthelashingontheoarbutt.“Ishouldhavebroughtastone.”Youshouldhavebroughtmanythings，hethought.Butyoudidnthem，oldman.Nowisnotimetothinkofwhatyoudonothave.Thinkofwhatyoudowithwhatthereis.

“Yougivememuchgoodsel，”hesaidaloud.“I’mtiredofit.”

Heheldthetillerunderhisarmandsoakedbothhishandsierastheskiffdroveforward.

“Godknowshowmuchthatlasto
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