Beyond his shadow a few feeble lights burned low and scattered along the bank.

Strange cries arose, the bumping of sampans, the mournful caterwauling of a stringed instrument.
"The native town's a bit above," he continued.

"We herd together here on the edge.

No concession, no bund, nothing." Their sampan grounded softly in malodorous ooze.

Each mounting the bare shoulders of a coolie, the two Europeans rode precariously to shore.
"My boys will fetch your boxes," called Heywood.