g chin, by peering querulous eyes that blinked as blink the eyes of denizens of monkey-cages.
Not even the water she brought him in a forest-leaf, and the ancient and half-putrid chunk of roast pig, could redeem in the slightest the grotesque hideousness of her. When he had eaten weakly for a space, he closed his eyes in order not to see her, although again and again she poked them open to peer at the blue of them. Then had come the sound. Nearer, much nearer, he knew it to be; and he knew equally well, despite the weary way he had come, that it was still many hours distant. The effect of it on her had been startling. She cringed under it, with averted face, moaning and chattering with fear. But after it had lived its full life of an hour, he closed his eyes and fell asleep with Balatta brushing the flies from him.
When he awoke it was night, and she was gone. But he was aware of renewed strength, and, by then too thoroughly inoculated by the mosquito poison to suffer further inflammation, he clo
A good collection of four of London's stories.
The Red One deals with a feverish Englishman living with cannibal headhunters in the jungle who keeps hearing wonderful gong-like tone, but it is taboo for him to know anything about it. Close to being a science fiction story.
The Hussy deals with an American railroad engineer's story of a huge lump of gold on a mountaintop in Peru.
Like Argus Of The Ancient Times is about a destitute 70 year old great-grandfather in California who decides to set out for the Yukon and rebuild his fortune.
The Princess is the story of three, one-armed, alcoholic hobos who meet at a camp one night and exchange stories of how they lost their arms and won their (South Seas Island) princesses. Perhaps they exaggerated a bit.
All the stories are beautifully written with great characters and detailed descriptions. London wasn't Mark Twain, but he could spin a yarn.