"My men are not niggers.  The sooner you understand that the better for our acquaintance.  As for the tinned goods, I'll pay for all they eat.  Please don't worry about that.  Worry is not good for you in your condition.  And I won't stay any longer than I have to- -just long enough to get you on your feet, and not go away with the feeling of having deserted a white man."

"You're American, aren't you?" he asked quietly.

The question disconcerted her for the moment.

"Yes," she vouchsafed, with a defiant look.  "Why?"

"Nothing.  I merely thought so."

"Anything further?"

He shook his head.

"Why?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing.  I thought you might have something pleasant to say."

"My name is Sheldon, David Sheldon," he said, with direct relevance, holding out a thin hand.

Her hand started out impulsively, then checked.  "My name is Lackland, Joan Lackland."  The hand went out.  "And let us be friends."

"It could not be otherwise--" he began lamely.

"And I can feed my men all the tinned goods I want?" she rushed on.

"Till the cows come home," he answered, attempting her own lightness, then adding, "that is, to Berande.  You see we don't have any cows at Berande."


She fixed him coldly with her eyes.