Next, chin, elbow, hand and knee up the steps came a fat, tough-looking Goanese, dressed anyhow at all in pink-colored dirty shirt, dark pants, and a helmet, also with rifle and empty bandolier.

I judged he weighed about two hundred and eighty pounds, but Coutlass yanked him in like a fish coming overside.

Last came a man who might be Arab, or part-Arab, part-Swahili, whom I did not recognize at first, fat, black, dressed in the white cotton garments and red fez of the more or less well-to-do native, and voluble with rare profanity.
"Johnson!" shouted Fred with almost the joy of greeting an old acquaintance.
It was Hassan, sure enough, short-winded and afraid, but more afraid of being left behind than of the manhandling.

Coutlass took hold of his outstretched arm, hoisted him, cracked his shins for him against the top step, and hurled him rump-over-shoulders into the compartment, where the other Greek and the Goanese grabbed him by the arms and legs and hove him to an upper berth, on which he lay gasping like a fish out of water and moaning miserably.

Their compartment was a mess of luggage, blankets, odds-and-ends, and angry men.