By Frances Gregg
“Hey—there’s ladies here， move on—you！” The tone wasauthoritative and old John， the village drunkard， crouched away.
“I warn’t doin’ nothin’，” he clutched feebly at the loosehanging rags that clothed him， “only wanted to see same’sthem. Guess this pier’s big enough to hold us all.”
“Halloo， John， have a drink？” A grinning boy held a can ofsalt water toward him.
The quick maudlin tears sprang to the old man’s eyes. “Littlefellers，” he muttered， “little fellers， they oughtn’t ter act thatway.”
“Give him a new necktie， he’s gotta go to dinner with theLodge.” A handful of dank sea-weed writhed around the oldman’s neck. “That’s a turtle， that is，” the boy went on， the needfor imparting information justifying his lapse from ragging thedrunkard. “There—swimming round—it’s tied to that stake.
You orter’ve seen it at low tide when it was on the beach. Itweighs ninety pounds.”
“I seen a turtle onct，” the drunkard quavered. “It wasbigger’n that. En they tied it to a stake—en it swam round—enit swam round—.” His sodden brain clutched for somethingmore to say， some marvel with which to hold the interest of thegathered boys. It was good to talk. If only they would let himtalk to them. If only they would let him sit on the store porchand smoke and gossip. He wouldn’t be the town disgrace—“Well—go on—what’d’t do？”
“Hey you！”—the boys were interrupted by the authoritativevoice—“I told you to move on， didn’t I—now if I tell youagain I’ll run you in. D’yer hear？ What you boys let that oldbum hang around you for anyway. What’s he doin’ here？”
“Aw， he’s fun. He warn’t doin’nothin’. He was just awatchin’ itswim. It’s tied to that post. It don’t come up no more.”
“Watchin’ it swim， eh， was he？ A’right. Whose dog is it？”
The officer turned and sauntered away.
Sudden horror seized the old man. The liquor seemeddrained out of his veins： his brain worked almost quickly.
“Whose dog—whose dog？ Say！” he darted after the retreatingboys. “Say—that ain’t no dog—is it—no dog？ Tied up likethat to drown—say—”
“Aw—keep off—I told you onct—it’s a turtle for the Lodgedinner.” The boy shook himself free.
The old man stood a moment， shaken. His pulpy brainworked dimly toward the conception of the pain that wasconsuming him. “Whose dog—” that man had asked—and hehadn’t meant to help it—“whose dog！” They could do it—tieup a dog to drown in sight of people—like that—cruel. He sawthe policeman coming toward him again. In a sudden frenzy heclutched his tattered garments about him and began to run， torun toward the end of the pier.
The boys raced after him. “What yer gonter do？” theyshouted. “What yer gonter do？”
The old man turned and looked at them a moment withtwitching features. “I’m gonter die，” he said.
“Come on， you fellers—come on—the drunk’s gonterdive—come on—he’s cryin’！”
There was a splash. A surge of green filth and mud spreadand dyed the water. A row of expectant heads leaned over therail. “Say—he ain’t come up.” They waited.
The policeman strolled leisurely down in response to theirrepeated cries. “Who ain’t come up？ What， him—the drunk？”
The officer leaned lethargically over the rail. “What’m I gonterdo？ Why， leave ‘m. He ain’t got no folks gonter sit up nightswaitin’ fer ‘m. Now you young ones go along home to yoursuppers，” he indulgently commanded， “and you little fellers， ifyou want crabs， be ‘round here early. By tomorrow this placewill be fairly swarmin’ with them.”
