Another equal period elapsed ere the German enounced, relevant of nothing:
“I'm rotten with fever. I'm going to quit you, Griffiths, when we get to Sydney. No more tropics for me. I ought to known better when I signed on with you.”
“You ain't been much of a mate,” Griffiths replied, too hot himself to speak heatedly. “When the beach at Guvutu heard I'd shipped you, they all laughed. 'What? Jacobsen?' they said. 'You can't hide a square face of trade gin or sulphuric acid that he won't smell out!' You've certainly lived up to your reputation. I ain't had a drink for a fortnight, what of your snoopin' my supply.”
“If the fever was as rotten in you as me, you'd understand,” the mate whimpered.
“I ain't kickin',” Griffiths answered. “I only wisht God'd send me a drink, or a breeze of wind, or something. I'm ripe for my next chill to-morrow.”
The mate proffered him the quinine. Rolling a fifty-grain dose, he popped the wad into his mouth and swallowed it dry.
“God! God!” he moaned. “I dream of a land somewheres where they ain't no quinine. Damned stuff of hell! I've scoffed tons of it in my time.”
Again he quested seaward for signs of wind. The usual trade-wind clouds were absent, and the sun, still low in its climb to meridian, turned all the sky to heated brass. One seemed to see as well as feel this heat, and Griffiths sought vain relief by gazing shoreward. The white beach was a searing ache to his eyeballs. The palm trees, absolutely still, outlined flatly against the unrefreshing green of the packed jungle, seemed so much cardboard scenery. The little black boys, playing naked in the dazzle of sand and sun, were an affront and a hurt to the sun-sick man. He felt a sort of relief when one, running, tripped and fell on all-fours in the tepid sea-water.
An exclamation from the blacks for'ard sent both men glancing seaward. Around the near point of land, a quarter of a mile away and skirting the reef, a long black canoe paddled into sight.
“Gooma boys from the next bight,” was the mate's verdict.