Anketam grinned at the boy. "Well, now, that's an excuse I'll accept. Come on, Blejjo, this is not a sport for old men like us. Fishing is more our speed."
Chuckling, Blejjo shouldered his fishing pole, and the two men started down the dusty village street toward the road that led to the river.
They walked in silence for a while, trying to ignore the glaring sun that brought the sweat out on their skins, soaking the sweatbands of their broad-brimmed hats and running in little rivulets down their bodies.
"I kind of feel sorry for that boy," old Blejjo said at last.
"Oh?" said Anketam. "How so? He'll get along. He's improving. Why, he did as good a job of transplanting as any man this spring. Last year, he bruised the seedlings, but I gave him a good dressing down and he remembered it. He'll be all right."
"I'm not talking about that, Ank," said the old man, "I mean him and Zillia. He's really got a case on with that girl."
"Anything wrong with that? A young fellow's got a right to fall in love, hasn't he? And Zillia seems pretty keen on him, too. If her father doesn't object, everything ought to go along pretty smoothly."
"Her father might not object," said Blejjo, looking down at his feet as they paced off the dusty road. "But there's others who might object."
"Who, for instance?"