"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. He had stumbled upon the clue to her tantalizing
personality. Her fingers, sunburned and boyish, told the story. No
wonder she had exasperated him so frequently. He had tried to treat with
her as a woman, when she was not a woman. She was a mere girl--and a
boyish girl at that--with sunburned fingers that delighted in doing what
boys' fingers did; with a body and muscles that liked swimming and
violent endeavour of all sorts; with a mind that was daring, but that
dared no farther than boys' adventures, and that delighted in rifles and
revolvers, Stetson hats, and a sexless _camaraderie_ with men.
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