A young man and an old one sat in the shade of the willows beside
the wide, still river. The glare of a hot August sun failed to
penetrate the shelter in which they idled; out upon the slow-gliding
river it beat relentlessly, creating a pale, thin vapour that
clung close to the shimmering surface and dazzled the eye with an
ever-shifting glaze. The air was lifeless, sultry, stifling; not a
leaf, not a twig in the tall, drooping willows moved unless stirred
by the passage of some vagrant bird.

The older man sat on the ground, his back against the trunk of a
tree that grew so near to the edge that it seemed on the point of
toppling over to shatter the smooth, green mirror below. Some of its
sturdy exposed roots reached down from the bank into the water,
where they caught and held the drift from upstream,--reeds and
twigs and matted grass,--a dirty, sickly mass that swished lazily
on the flank of the slow-moving current.

The water here in the shade was deep and clear and limpid, contrasting
sharply with the steel-white surface out beyond.

The young man occupied a decrepit camp stool, placed conveniently
against the trunk of another tree hard by. A discarded bamboo rod
lay beside him on the bank, the hook and line hopelessly tangled
in the drift below. He smoked cigarettes.

His companion held a well-chewed black cigar in the vise-like corner
of his mouth. His hook and line were far out in the placid water,