"All right.

Good-by." Leaving the grumbling and muttering Roke scowling after him.
Brice stepped out onto the sand to meet the newcomer.

The roustabout apparently belonged to the conch tribe of which Milo had spoken.

Thin, undersized, swarthy, with features that showed a trace of negro and perhaps of Indian blood as well, he had a furtive manner and seemed to cringe away from the Northerner as they set off across the clearing, toward the distant huts and still more distant orchards.
He was bareheaded and stoop-shouldered.

Beyond a ragged pair of drill trousers--indescribably dirty--his only garment was a still dirtier and raggeder undershirt.