Here came the foghorn of 11 o’clock in the afternoon. At wharf’s end, the Hardys found a wagon filled with ice. Inside, glistening in the sudden sun, a row of baby orcas, eyes still open, lay like a sleeping totem with tongues stiff as pistils. Joe pointed to a sign: Wale Pupz. 1$ Do not inkwire.
Frank raised one from the ice, jiggled loose a tooth, and felt a molar of his own give way. They weighed a dollar with some ice, and receded into the shade.