Rascals of Vrboska (Hvar Island ,Croatia)

I choose a table looking over the port. I meant to read my book but instead gaze at boat masts nodding a gentle rhythm, a boy cycling over the shallow bridge with a fishing rod resting on the handlebars, old men in the shade keeping a firm eye on all that passes by. 

A meow curls from beneath the tablecloth. I try to ignore but my every mouthful of tuna salad is accompanied with pleading whine from below. I chew on the guilt. Finally the waiter clocks his nemesis, gives a withered look and a sharp clap. The cat knows the jig is up and skulks off. 

Four boys march in, line up, and on a count of 1-2-3, they wiggle their bums and sing a jeering song at the the waiter. He, with the air of a martyr who has played this game several hundred times too many, raps the leader on the head with cutlery and it seems the daily (perhaps hourly) ritual it at an end. The troop line up under the bar and are each served a glass of water. This band of five-year olds are those boys of story-books and comic strips, scraped-kneed and free rascals adventuring through a Huckleberry summer. 

The church bell rings out. The boys turn, wipe their mouths, plonk the glasses back on the bar, race out of the bistro, across the bridge, and off to fill a long afternoon with mischief.

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