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She found him still
sitting astride of the boat's prow, not yet free of his reverie
apparently; for when she gave a low call of "Pescator!" prolonging the
last syllable with the emphasis and the accent of Naples, but always
softly, he started, and nearly dropped into the sea the piece of bread
he was lifting to his mouth. Recovering himself in time to save the
bread deftly with one brown hand, he turned half round, leaning on his
left arm, and stared at Vere with large, inquiring eyes. She stood by
the steps and beckoned to him, lifting up the packet of cigarettes,
then pointing to his sleeping companions:
"Come here for a minute!"
The boy smiled, sprang up, and leaped onto the islet. As he came to
her, with the easy, swinging walk of the barefooted sea-people, he
pulled up his white trousers, and threw out his chest with an obvious
desire to "fare figura" before the pretty Padrona of the islet. When
he reached her he lifted his hand to his bare head forgetfully,
meaning to take off his cap to her.


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