The other hand held the cigar which he was smoking.
The wet sultry heat grew more oppressive.

The air was nauseous with the dank mucky odour that cooked out of the mangrove swamp.

Rowelled by the squeaky music to recollection of old-world ports and places, Borckman lay on his face on the hot planking, beat a tattoo with his naked toes, and gutturally muttered an unending monologue of curses.

But Van Horn, with Jerry panting under his hand, placidly and philosophically continued to smoke, lighting a fresh cigar when the first gave out.
He roused abruptly at the faint wash of paddles which he was the first on board to hear.

In fact, it was Jerry's low growl and neck-rippling of hair that had keyed Van Horn to hear.