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The news that a big one was hooked spread far down the pier, and the boys, for the first time in their lives, tasted the delight of being the cynosure of the eyes of a rapidly increasing crowd. The man with the potatoes had forced his way to the pier's edge and gave advice with an almost proprietary manner.
She waited. She saw the glow of his cigar as he came down the pier, a tall, slim white figure in the moonlight. It was just like a novel. It was a novel, come to life. He stood a moment at the pier's edge, smoking. Then he tossed his cigar into the water and it fell with a little s-st! He stood another moment, irresolutely. Then he came over to her. "Nice night."
The first verse of this poem runs: Reticulations creep upon the slack stream's face When the wind skims irritably past. The current clucks smartly into each hollow place That years of flood have scrabbled in the pier's sodden base; The floating-lily leaves rot fast. One could make as good music as that out of a milk-cart. One would accept such musicless verse only from a man of genius.
It's you who've had the waiting to do. The pier's closed now." "It was just closing at five," she answered. "I ought to have known. But I didn't. The fact is, I scarcely ever go out. I remembered once seeing the pier open at night, and I thought it was always open." She shrugged her shoulders as if stopping a shiver. "I hope you haven't caught cold," he said. "Suppose we walk along a bit."
The tone was authoritative and old John, the village drunkard, crouched away. "I warn't doin' nothin'," he clutched feebly at the loose hanging rags that clothed him, "only wanted to see same's them. Guess this pier's big enough to hold us all." "Halloo, John, have a drink?" A grinning boy held a can of salt water toward him. The quick maudlin tears sprang to the old man's eyes.
Looming ponderously in the middle distance of the pier's vista, a lorgnette held to her eyes, and a frozen look of horror on her ample features, was Aunt Judith herself. An Ontario sun shed a pleasant warmth into the clearing where Elder Hector McCakeron sat smoking. His gratified consciousness was pleasantly titillated by sights and sounds of worldly comfort.
The hotel stood on a rocky ledge above the harbour, and the sound of the sea, beating on the outer side of the pier, came up with a deafening roar. The red-funnelled steamer we should have sailed by lay on the pier's sheltered side, letting down steam, swaying to her creaking hawsers, and heaving to the foam that was surging against her bow.
"Maybe," he admitted, as he reached for the worm can. Hooks baited, the boys dropped their lines in the water and sat down to dangle their legs to and fro over the pier's edge as they waited for the first hint as to the morning's luck. Possibly a quarter of an hour elapsed before Silvey's light steel rod gave a twitch, to be followed by another and still another.
"What did I tell you!" he shouted, running out his tongue derisively. "Scat!" said Marie, shaking the bellows at him, and Jan sauntered away toward the pasture with Pier's halter over his arm. Pier had been eating grass for two nights and a day without doing any work, and it took Jan some time to catch him and put the halter over his head.
Out at Lake Nancy Osceola, a young fellow in flannel shirt, knickerbockers and canvas shoes, was scanning the shore from a wooden pier which ran out the extent of shallow water, having just made fast the sail-boat rising and falling with the swell at the pier's end. A grove of well grown orange trees stretched up the slope from the water.
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