Bob Stanton walked along the main street of Suva, painfully conscious that people looked at him as if he was a beach comber. He was not quite that--yet--though he was not many degrees removed from it, he told himself. His ducks and his linen, if they were frayed, were clean; he managed, with old blades and the horrible soap supplied by his landlady, to keep shaved; the soles of his shoes were broken, but the uppers were carefully pipe-clayed. He was still respectable, but his hair needed cutting and his browned features were beginning to wear an expression that made even the kilted native police look at him askance. Not to mention the tourists. A steamer was in. Men and women were strolling…
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