“Nice, friendly sort of a millionaire. That right? Perhaps he thinks we’re not worth talking to.”
“Johnny,” the old man laid a hand gently on the boy’s knee, “any man is worth talking to—the poorest and most degraded has something to say. If he can’t tell you how to live, he can tell you how not to live, and that’s sometimes most important.”
Leaning forward, he shaded his eyes to scan the horizon.
Johnny did not so much as wonder what he saw there. The sea was perfectly calm. Bits of seaweed floated here and there. A seagull skimmed low to drop like a single feather upon the water, then to rise and float away in the air.
Johnny’s eyes lingered first upon the sea, then upon the girl, Madge Kennedy, who sat close beside him. He thought he had never known a finer girl. Brave and strong, good color, clear eyes, a clearer skin, strong as a man, yet tender hearted and kind, giving her spare hours to her grandfather, yet alert and alive to every sport and joy of life, she seemed worthy of a place in a great drama or a book.
“That friend of ours,” said Kennedy, resuming his seat, “he will come out of his hole sooner or later. Then he’s going to talk. Who will he talk to? To an old man. That’s me. Everyone talks to an old man if he has a chance. Did you ever notice that, Johnny?”
“No, I—”
“Fact, nevertheless. You watch. Natural enough, I guess. When a man gets old, he loses the burning desire he might have had to become rich or famous. He gets to feeling that he’s about done his bit, and that it would be nice and pleasant to sit beside the road and give the younger ones a little advice. Don’t you ever forget that, Johnny. When an old man talks, you listen. It’s just as I said, if he can’t tell you how to live, he can tell you how not to live.”
Again he paused to stare at the sky. Wetting a finger, he held it up to the air.
“Wind’s changed,” he muttered to himself.