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Show 65, Jeffries, Islamorada [Section 2] Thirty yards out into the Atlantic a boy was poling a narrow skiff. He balanced himself and waved, more at the Old Timer than at me, Dorian Clayton thought, okay for you, Hawkins. . . "A sponger?" Dory asked quietly. "That's it, he's got the three-pronged fork, and he sees outta the glassbottom bucket. . ." "That kid tried to kill me," Dory said, "Or anyway that slow class, those boys of his took credit when I said I come upon a scorpion in my room, step on the damn rubbery thing at midnight--" "--Ain't supposed to be here," the Old Timer agreed. "The scorpions arrived on a boatload of bad lumber from Caracas. But you got to go the extra mile with the Conchs, the kids raised on the broth and fritters, the muscle of the Queen Conch shell, their people come here long ago as wood-cutters, turtlers, then took up wrecking, a different sort, drifting west out of the island colonies of the British Empire, you go back to your Revolutionary War and the Conchs were loyalists. . Watch Out for Stingaree!" old Rossmore yelled at the boy, and Dorian Clayton jumped, "Right there in the bay, at that exact spot," the Old Timer explained, rubbing his leg, "Stingaree whipped a horrible bite onto me. Though come to think of it that was maybe fifty years ago. Yet I'd venture he's out there right now. . ." |
