"And 'futures' in farming are just about as certain as in Wall Street.

There's a mighty gamble to this farm-game." "How long have-- ?" began Gavin, then stopped short and stared.
One or two negro laborers had drifted down toward the dock, as the boat warped in at the float.

Now, from the corrugated iron hut appeared a white man, who, at sight of the boat, broke into a limping run and was in time to catch the line which Milo flung at him.
The man was sparsely and sketchily clad.

At first, his tanned face seemed to be of several different colors and to have been modeled by some bungling caricaturist.

Yet, despite this eccentricity of aspect, something about the obsequiously hurrying man struck Brice as familiar.