Harold Bindloss,
Gillatly's March
(1907)
“ Then, slashing a way with the matchet, they blundered through thickets of ten-foot cane, and floundered knee-deep, and sometimes waist-deep, in the foulest kind of mire, with a horrible smell of corruption rising about them, and the sunrays burning pitilessly down on Gillatly's hammock. It was afternoon, and every man was worn out, when they reached dry land again and hung the hammock between two palms. Frypan, the factory cook, stewed a sweet potato and sundry pieces of a fowl in yellow oil, and offered the mess to Gillatly, who abused him faintly and ate nothing. ”
