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. His naked feet flapped
awkwardly, like a turtle's. He was not a pretty or
prepossessing sight.

Across the clearing he pattered, head down, still cringing
away from the visitor. As the two entered the shadows of the
nearest grove Gavin Brice glanced quickly around him on all
sides. The conch did the same. Then the two moved on with
the same distance between them as before.

And as they went Gavin spoke. He spoke in a low tone. not
moving his lips or looking directly toward the other man.

"Good boy. Davy!" he said, approvingly. "How did you get the
job of taking me around? I was afraid I'd have to look for
you."

"Two other men were picked out to do it sir," said the conch
without slackening his pace or turning his head. "One after
the other. One was a nigger. One was a conch. Both of 'em
got sick. I paid 'em to. And I paid the nigger an extra five
to tell Roke I'd be the best man to steer you. He said he'd
been on jobs with me before. He and the conch are malingering
in the sick shed. Ipecac. I gave it to 'em."

"Good!" repeated Gavin. "Mighty good. Now what's the idea?"