“Shake! shake! shake!
Till joints are loose and sinews slack,
Till every bone is a torturing thing,
And every nerve is a hornet’s sting,
While up and down the weary back
An army of icebergs, stern and solemn,
Marches along the spinal column.”
That was just how poor, wild Klatchman—as he called himself—felt when he was lifted into the boat and held there by fear that Max would kill him if he attempted to move.
The man gave himself up for lost, and bade farewell by gestures to the cows and the sacred bulls, to his tribe and his kindred.
The Arabs bent themselves to the oars and the boat seemed to fly along.