He had to hurry them then the whole length of the jetty; it had been a desperate dash, neck or nothing--and again it was Nostromo, a fellow in a thousand, who, at the head, this time, of the Company's body of lightermen, held the jetty against the rushes of the rabble, thus giving the fugitives time to reach the gig lying ready for them at the other end with the Company's flag at the stern.

Sticks, stones, shots flew; knives, too, were thrown.

Captain Mitchell exhibited willingly the long cicatrice of a cut over his left ear and temple, made by a razor-blade fastened to a stick--a weapon, he explained, very much in favour with the "worst kind of nigger out here." Captain Mitchell was a thick, elderly man, wearing high, pointed collars and short side-whiskers, partial to white waistcoats, and really very communicative under his air of pompous reserve.
"These gentlemen," he would say, staring with great solemnity, "had to run like rabbits, sir.

I ran like a rabbit myself.

Certain forms of death are--er--distasteful to a--a--er--respectable man.