He was still deep in the interior of that shoe on which my eyes too were resting.
“Have you thought any more of this deal in potatoes I spoke to you about the other day?”
“No, I haven't,” I answered curtly. He checked my movement to rise by an austere, commanding gesture of the hand holding that fatal shoe. I remained seated and glared at him. “You know I don’t trade.”
“You ought to, Captain. You ought to.”
I reflected. If I left that house now I would never see the girl again. And I felt I must see her once more, if only for an instant. It was a need, not to be reasoned with, not to be disregarded. No, I did not want to go away. I wanted to stay for one more experience of that strange provoking sensation and of indefinite desire, the habit of which had made me—me of all people!—dread the prospect of going to sea.
“Mr. Jacobus,” I pronounced slowly. “Do you really think that upon the whole and taking various matters into consideration—I mean everything, do you understand?—it would be a good thing for me to trade, let us say, with you?”
I waited for a while. He went on looking at the shoe which he held now crushed in the middle, the worn point of the toe and the high heel protruding on each side of his heavy fist.
“That will be all right,” he said, facing me squarely at last.
“Are you sure?”
“You'll find it quite correct, Captain.” He had uttered his habitual phrases in his usual placid, breath-
