Wyndham's Pal by Harold Bindloss — Read

When Marston woke in the morning his headache and languidness had gone. It looked as if the powder the mulatto had left had cured him, and although he did not find the laudanum and packet of drugs, he resolved he would not bother about their loss. In a day or two, small lots of rather valuable cargo began to arrive and one afternoon Marston and Wyndham lounged under the awning and watched the Krooboys transfer goods from a big canoe to the yacht. Four or five negroes from up river put the fiber packages in the hoisting slings.

The men worked slackly, for although the sun was hidden the heat was extreme. A yellow haze covered the sky, but the oily surface of the lagoon shimmered with subdued light. On the other side, the reflection of the mangroves floated motionless, without a leaf quivering. Dark shadow lurked in the caves under the high roots, and here and there the massed foliage was touched by dirty white. Marston thought the trees looked as if they were blighted by some foul disease. He hated the mangroves and the smell of mud that hung about the vessel.