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He was an old man who fished alone in a schift in the gulf stream
And he had gone eighty four days now without taking a fish in the first forty days
A boy had been with him
But after forty days without a fish
The boy's parents had told him
That the old man was now definitely in finally sararo which is the worst form of unlucky
And the boy had gone at their order
Order in another boat
Which caught three good fish
The first week
It made the boys sad to see the old man come in each day with his skiff empty
And he always went down to help him carry either the coil lines or the gaffine harpoon and the sale that was filled around the mast
The sale was patched with flower sacks
And filled it looked like the flag of permanent defeat
The old man was thin in gords with deep prinkles in the back of his neck
The brown blotches of the benelelent skin caner er sun brings from its reflection on the tropicc sea were on his cheeks
The blotches ran well down the sides of his face and his hands
Had the deep creased scars from handling heavy fish on the courts
But none of these scars were fresh
They were resolved as erosions in a fishless desert
Everything about him was old
Except his eyes and they were the same color as the sea
And were cheerful and undefeated santiago
The boy set to him
As they climbed the bank from where the skift was hold out
I could go with you again
You've made some money
The old man had taught the boy to fish
And the boy loved him
No
The old man said you were a lucky boat stay with them
But remember how you went eighty seven days without fish
And then we caught big ones
Every day for three weeks
I remember the old man said
I know you did not leave me
Because you doubt it
It was pop made me leave
I am a boy
And i must obey him
I know the old man said is quite normal
He hasn't much faith
No
The old man said
But we have
Haven't
We yes
The boy said can i offer you a beer on the terrorist
And then will take the stuff home
Why not the old man said
Between fishermen