he largess of Providence," he said, "is bestowed impartially upon
sot and Samaritan. I helped the little fellow next door to the
bathroom this afternoon while his mother was away at work, and my
selflessness had its just reward."

Sometimes it's hard to tell when Doc is kidding. He's an educated
man--used to teach at some Northern college, he said once, and I never
doubted it--and talks like one when he wants to. But Doc's no bum,
though he's a semi-alcoholic and lets me support him like an invalid
uncle, and he's keen enough to read my mind like a racing form.

"No, I didn't batter down the cupboard and help myself," he said. "The
lady--her name is Mrs. Ethel Pond--gave me the drink. Why else do you
suppose I'd launder a shirt?"

That was like Doc. He hadn't touched her bottle though his insides
were probably snarled up like barbed wire for the want of it. He'd
shaved and pressed a shirt instead so he'd look decent enough to rate
a shot of gin she'd offer him as a reward. It wasn't such a doubtful
gamble at that, because Doc has a way with him when he bothers to use
it; maybe that's why he bums around with me after the commercial
fishing and migratory crop work, because he's used that charm too
often in the wrong places.

"Good enough," I said and punctured a can of beer apiece for us while
Doc put the snapper steaks to cook.

He told me more about our neighbors while we killed the beer. The
Ponds were permanent residents. The kid--his name was Joey and he was
ten--was a polio case who hadn't walked for over a year, and his
mother was a waitress at a roadside joint named the Sea Shell Diner.
There wasn't any Mr. Pond. I guessed there never had been, which would
explain why Ethel acted so tough and sullen.

We were halfway through supper when I remembered something the kid had
said.

"Who's Charlie?" I asked.

Doc frowned at his plate. "The kid had a dog named Charlie, a big
shaggy mutt with only one eye and no love for anybody but the boy. The
dog isn't coming home. He was run down by a car on the highway while
Joey was hospitalized with polio."

"Tough," I said, thinking of the kid sitting out there all day in his
wheelchair, straining his eyes across the palmetto flats. "You mean
he's been waiting a _year_?"

Doc nodded, seemed to lose interest in the Ponds, so I let the subject
drop. We sat around after supper and polished off the rest of the
beer. When we turned in around midnight I figured we wouldn't