"They're all on again," he thought.
A line of flounders stretched above the narrow, crooked street of the fishing-village.

The flounders looked like queer clothes hung to dry on a clothes-line.

There were crates of small fish, packed so that they stood on their heads.

Underneath a table of drying fish lay a dead gopher.
Red placards spotted the houses.

On the roof of one hut a little paper windmill was turning in the breeze.