"So that's who you are," mused Gil. "You look like a Mike, a real butch Mike." So Mike turned his eyes to the girl, and with a shouted "Sure!" strolled casually over, and sat down within a few yards of Gil

so near in fact that Gil could no longer feast his eyes on his new Apollo without being obvious; so with a nudge to his sun-glasses, he returned to his book.

Sunday had been the same only this time Gil did not choose his place casually. Behind dark glasses, pretending to be reading or asleep, he had the opportunity of taking in every detail of his new god's magnificent frame. His finely sculptured head outlined by the halo of his crewcut hair, bleached pale yellow by the constant sun and salt-air; his broad, golden, rippling shoulders; his slim, slim hips, encompassed by snug narrow shorts, sky-blue with a white vertical stripe; his long, rangy legs, lean and hard and muscular.

Gil took in everything, his heart racing just a little, and wondered whether he'd be able to see Mike tomorrow, which was not a holiday. He wondered too, if he'd ever have the good fortune actually to meet this hunk of bodily perfection But Mike was straight that much was obvious. Gil shrugged off this wish-

ful thinking as a waste of time.

Mike had leapt to his feet in hot pursuit of two of the girls, one of whom had just shouted out "Last one in's lousy!" Gil watched him as he splashed energetically through the shallows, and in a burst of spray, dived into a breaker. "As if he'd be interested in anyone like me," he sighed inwardly, forgetting the fact that he himself was in the life-saver class and no mean athlete, and cursing his dark complexion, his brown eyes, and short, black curly hair.

And all week long this had been the pattern, the daily routine. Only too glad to be out of his hot, stuffy little room at the Y, Gil would stroll down Pitt street in time to catch the nine-thirty ferry, and by ten he stretched out on the beach, the sound of the breaking surf drowning out his silent thoughts, and lulling his brain. And half an hour later, apparently off the ten o'clock ferry, Mike and his pals would arrive and duly encamp themselves in the same spot as before.

Day after day it had been the same and now here it was Saturday again. Gil sat up, linked his powerful arms around his knees, and sightlessly and dolefully looked at the blue sparkling Pacific. He fingered the shark's tooth that hung from his neck, contrasting its sharp edge and point with the limpid silver chain that carried it. He had come from Launceston to escape his mother's constant efforts to marry him off, to escape the small town life with its limited opportunities for meeting people of his own kind, to another State, to the big city; and here he was, after a week, still not knowing a soul to say hello to. You'd think they'd have noticed him by now, all alone, day after day in the same place. They needed another man to make an eight-some, so you'd think it would be so easy to invite him to join them. Even when he'd returned their bouncing blue beach ball on Wednesday, but no . . . Ah! What's the use!

He looked at his watch. Yes, four o'clock. Right on time. The ice cream man arrived, and parked under the nearest pine, his tinkling "Davy, Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier . . ." repeating over and over, advertising his presence. Gil got to his feet and sauntered across for his afternoon lime icy-pole a habit he'd developed throughout the week. Gil lined up with all the kids, jabbering, excitedly clutching their six-pences.

Immediately in front of him was one of Mike's friends, the one they called "Bunny", presumably because his name was Warren. "Hmmmm," Gil thought. "Kinda cute. Happy laugh. Good on a surf-board. Fair, too but give me Mike any day."

Suddenly Bunny turned to him. "Excuse me, sport, but you wouldn't have

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