"Oh-h, shucks!" He sighed and came suddenly out of his reverie, looked
up at the sky, turned wearily inboard, and sat himself on one of the
towing bitts.
The passenger, from the other towing bitt, asked what it was.
"I was just thinking that some of us are tied to the end of a string,
just like that barge, and we don't know it any more than she does, and
no more able to help ourselves than she can--sometimes."
"I never looked at a towing barge in that light before," said the
passenger, and lit a cigar. He made no offer of one to Kieran, because
he had before this learned that Kieran never smoked.
The ship rolled, the barge yawed, the reefs kept sliding by. The
passenger stole a look at the pump-man, and ventured: "Kieran, there
used to be, a few years ago, a sprinter, pole-vaulter, and jumper,
competing under the name of Campbell in the Hibernian and Caledonian
games up north, and you're a ringer for him."
Kieran glanced sidewise at the passenger. "You must have been in
athletics yourself--seems to me I've seen you somewhere too."
"Maybe. My name's Benson."
"I remember--a sprinter. And a good one, too."
"Good enough--with no Wefers or Duffey, or somebody like yourself
around," protested the passenger, but immensely pleased nevertheless to
be identified after so many years. And they were both pleased and
exchanged rapid comment on a dozen incidents of athletic days; and when
two ex-athletes get together they run on interminably.
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