And I don't blame him." "Her skipper's rotten bad with fever," Sheldon explained.

"And he had to drop his mate off to take hold of things at Ugi--that's where I lost Oscar, my trader.

And you know what sort of sailors the niggers are." She nodded her head judicially, and while she seemed to debate a weighty judgment he asked for a second helping of tinned beef--not because he was hungry, but because he wanted to watch her slim, firm fingers, naked of jewels and banded metals, while his eyes pleasured in the swell of the forearm, appearing from under the sleeve and losing identity in the smooth, round wrist undisfigured by the netted veins that come to youth when youth is gone.

The fingers were brown with tan and looked exceedingly boyish.

Then, and without effort, the concept came to him.
Yes, that was it.