Charles Beadle

“ Of course, you're a doctor an' used to carvin'—but, God, it would have made you sick." Again he moved restlessly in his chair. "They cut him alive—screeches—poor devil—then they—they put it up there." He actually pointed to the exact spot. "Up there in the fork of that bough. See? I vomited."
The hum of the insectile anthem continued remorselessly to the beat of the invisible baton. A cricket sang a shrill solo and ceased. Far away was the effect of sorrow in a hyena. Only one cigar glowed like the fierce eye of a dragon. From the doctor came an inarticulate noise. ”

“ Drinkin' all the time native beer, y'know. Fermented corn. Then the girls' stomach-dances an' all that. Meanwhile the big feller sat up there in the shadow of the tree, sulky, silent. God knows whether he knew what was coming. I began to get bored." Again that throaty chuckle with a harsh rasp to it. "God—see the same old thing all over again. Then, just as the moon spilled over that big bough there and covered the big negro, there came a change. ”

“ By the way, that's why I dress sometimes. Just to try to keep myself sane. Helps. Can't fool around all day an' night doin' nothin'. I mean even cleanin' oneself an' pretendin' things keeps—oh, reminds one of what one was. Otherwise—well, it isn't done, is it? Not playing the game."
"But if—what you inferred—we might escape—ought not to lose any time."
"Time! You dear old thing! I've been sitting here for twelve moons wastin' time, ain't I? This is an island: crocs all round."
"But I've got a canoe!" exclaimed the doctor. ”