Three old men sat on the wall of Kilmilik Pier, their backs to the sea and faces to the village and sun. Suddenly, the sound of a flapping sail broke the quiet. A small white yacht swung around the corner of the pier and came alongside them.
"Where's the nearest public house?" asked a red-faced man in white cotton shirt and trousers. The three old men answered in unison. "Let's go and have a drink, Totty," said the red-faced man. "Right-o," replied his friend.
As the red-faced man climbed the iron ladder fixed to the pier, a shilling slipped silently from his back pocket. It landed on a coil of rope on the yacht's deck below. Unaware of his loss, the man walked on, chatting with his friend.
The three old men saw the coin fall. None spoke of it, not to the stranger nor to each other. The moment the shilling landed and lay shining, they became painfully aware of it, a shared secret that stole their speech.
Each knew the others had seen it. Each remained silent, hoping to keep the discovery to himself. Each also knew it was impossible to retrieve the coin unseen. A man in a white cap moved about in the yacht's cabin, his head appearing in the doorway every few moments to the sound of clattering plates. The shilling lay within two feet of that doorway. Besides, they were too old—except perhaps Patsy Conroy—to manage the climb down and back up the ladder.
Furthermore, each understood that even if the cabin were empty and he could descend, the others would prevent him. Each preferred that no one have the shilling if he could not have it himself.
Yet, the attraction of that shining coin was so powerful that they stared, hearts pounding and minds racing, at the spot where it lay. They stared in a silence so tense it was as loud as a violent quarrel.
The sun shone warmly. The thought of the excellent cool beer at Kelly's, stirred by the salt sea air, awakened a fierce thirst. Not one of them considered that the shilling belonged to another. In fact, each was so incensed by the shameless greed of the other two that he felt a murderous rage. Three minutes passed this way.
The yacht owners had disappeared from view. Brian Manion and Mick Feeney trembled, mouths watering at the thought of the beer they now craved. Then Patsy Conroy bent down, picked up a small stone from the pier, and dropped it onto the yacht's deck. The other two made a slight, foolish, unconscious movement with their sticks, as if to intercept the pebble.
What happened next was so unexpected their jaws dropped: Patsy Conroy spoke.
"Hey there!" he shouted through cupped hands.
A pale, sad-looking man stepped out of the cabin. "What do you want?"
"Beg your pardon, sir," said Patsy Conroy, "but would you hand me up that shilling that just dropped out of my hand?"
The man nodded, picked up the shilling, said "Catch," and tossed it onto the pier. Patsy touched his cap and dived for it.
The other two were so stunned they didn't even try to stop him. They simply watched him pocket the coin. Then they watched him walk up the pier, his long, thin, grey-backed figure with a yellow scarf moving as straight and solemn as a policeman.
They looked at each other, faces twisted with anger. Each raised his stick and snarled at the other: "Why didn't you stop him, you fool?"