They were spots.

They were specks.

They were nothing.



II



Silence, profound, portentous, protracted, followed.

Finally, Honey Smith absently stooped and picked up a pebble. He threw
it over the silver ring of the flat, foam-edged, low-tide waves. It
curved downwards, hissed across a surface of water smooth as jade,
skipped four times, and dropped.

The men strained their eyes to follow the progress of this tangible
thing.

"Where do you suppose they've gone?" Honey said as unexcitedly as one
might inquire directions from a stranger.

"When do you suppose they'll come back?" Billy Fairfax added as casually
as one might ask the time.

"Did you notice the red-headed one?" asked Pete Murphy. "My first girl
had red hair. I always jump when I see a carrot-top." He made this