“I have,”the old man said getting up and taking the newspaper and folding it.Then he started to fold the blanket.“Keep the blanket around you,”the boy said.You'll not fish without eating while I'm alive.
“I know.”
“I think they are equal.”
“He was a great manager,”the boy said.“My father thinks he was the greatest.”
“I thanked him already,”the boy said.“You don't need to thank him.”
They walked down the road to the old man's shack and all along the road,in the dark,barefoot men were moving, carrying the masts of their boats.
“I would like to take the great DiMaggio fishing,”the old man said.“ They say his father was a fisherman.Maybe he was as poor as we are and would understand.”
“There was nothing ever like them.He hits the longest ball I have ever seen.”
“Should we talk about Africa or about baseball?”
“That's very kind of you,”the old man said.“Should we eat?”
“Age is my alarm clock,”the old man said.“ Why do old men wake so early?Is it to have one longer day?”
Where did you wash?The boy thought.The village water supply was two streets down the road.I must have water here for him,the boy thought,and soap and a good towel.Why am I so thoughtless? I must get him another shirt and a jacket for the winter and some sort of shoes and another blanket.
“There is no such fish if you are still strong as you say.”“I may not be as strong as I think,”the old man said.“ But I know many tricks and I have resolution.”