Puffing out a few smoke rings, the old man looked at the people standing on the shore: "Hey, young folks over there, this is an old broken boat. If you want to head downstream, cough cough, you'd better line up over there."
Lynch flashed a childlike smile and shouted loudly toward the boat: "Uncle Van Dijk, you should put on your glasses, or how will you know who's here?"
The old man paused for a moment, then took two more puffs from his pipe. He took out a lens from his oil-stained shirt pocket, perched it on his nose, and squinted at the young people outside the boat.
"Kid, I'm old and can't remember who you are." The old man shifted the cigarette butt from one side of his mouth to the other, exhaling smoke as he spoke, "You've got to make it easy on this poor old man, quickly tell me your name."
Lynch waved a hand, and a plank flew up, bridging the dock and the deck: "Uncle Van Dijk, it's me, Lynch. These are my companions. So, is it just you still here?"
