“Much obliged to you, Leendert,” laughed Grenits. “I would not for the world touch the beastly thing—this pillow will do perfectly well.”
Thus speaking, he turned his face to the lamp, applied his mouth to the stem of his bedoedan, and, trying to imitate as closely as he could the proceedings he had witnessed at Kaligaweh, he was about to apply the bowl to the flame.
“Hold hard!” cried Murowski, “don’t be in a hurry, one moment.”
With these words he took Theodoor’s pulse and held it for fully a minute looking the while carefully at his watch. Then he once again applied the stethoscope, examined the thermometers, replaced them, and finally, in his notebook he wrote: Pulse 72, respiration 24, temperature 99½.
“That’s it,” said he, “now then puff away to your heart’s content.”
With one steady long pull Grenits sucked the flame of the lamp into the bowl. As the opium-ball kindled, a faint sweetish odour began to pervade the apartment, a smell somewhat suggestive of warm blood and treacle.
“Swallow it, swallow it!” cried van Rheijn.
This, however, was more easily said than done. Grenits made an effort to swallow the nasty smoke; but then a violent fit of coughing compelled him to open his mouth and blow out the fumes into the room, augmenting thereby the nauseous smell which already pervaded the apartment.
“Poeah! poeah!” cried Grenits, puffing and coughing.
“What do you feel? What do you taste?” asked Murowski.