But I got to, or croak." He rolled, at a rough estimate, thirty grains of quinine in a cigarette paper, regarded the result sourly for a moment, then swallowed it at a gulp.

This reminded Van Horn, who reached for the bottle and took a similar dose.
"Better put up a covering cloth," he suggested.
Borckman directed several of the boat's crew in the rigging up of a thin tarpaulin, like a curtain along the shore side of the _Arangi_.

This was a precaution against any bushwhacking bullet from the mangroves only a hundred feet away.
Van Horn sent Tambi below to bring up the small phonograph and run off the dozen or so scratchy, screechy records that had already been under the needle a thousand times.

Between records, Van Horn recollected the girl, and had her haled out of her dark hole in the lazarette to listen to the music.

She obeyed in fear, apprehensive that her time had come.
She looked dumbly at the big fella white master, her eyes large with fright; nor did the trembling of her body cease for a long time after he had made her lie down.