Sheykh Ab el-Ghrennem and his swarthy followers sat in silence on their
ponies and watched the mad Nasara sweating and cursing as they urged
on two hundred blacks in an effort to drag a nine-ton generator truck
through the muddy bottom of a small stream.
Nearby, Jerrold Baine leaned against the door of a muddy touring car in
conversation with the two girls who occupied the back seat.
"How you feeling, Naomi?" he inquired.
"Rotten."
"Touch of fever again?"
"Nothing but since we left Jinja. I wish I was back in Hollywood; but I
won't ever see Hollywood again. I'm going to die here."
"Aw, shucks! You're just blue. You'll be all right."
"She had a dream last night," said the other girl. "Naomi believes in
dreams."
"Shut up," snapped Miss Madison.
"_You_ seem to keep pretty fit, Rhonda," remarked Baine.