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[The accountant]: "'What a frightful row,' he said. He crossed the room gently to look at the sick man, and returning, said to me, "he does not hear. 'What! Dead?' I asked, startled. 'No, not yet,' he answered, with great composure. Then, alluding with a toss of the head to the tumult in the station-yard, 'When one has got to make correct entries, one comes to hate those savages—hate them to death.'" (1.47)
Ugh it is so annoying when we're trying to get our work done and the other agents keep dying. Where'd be put our Bose noise-canceling headphones?
[After the shed fire]: "'What a row the brute makes!' said the indefatigable man with the moustaches, appearing near us. 'Serve him right. Transgression—punishment—bang! Pitiless, pitiless. That's the only way. This will prevent all conflagrations for the future. I was just telling the manager…'" (1.60)
Nice. The so-called pilgrims' goodness pitilessly beat the black man blamed for the fire. They have no compassion for his suffering; his whimpers are registered only as a "row" made by "the brute." They treat the man like an animal, as if he will only learn his lesson from repeated beatings.
"More than once she [the steamboat] had to wade for it, with twenty cannibals splashing around and pushing. We had enlisted some of these chaps on the way for a crew. Fine fellows—cannibals—in their place. They were men one could work with, and I am grateful to them. And, after all, they did not eat each other before my face: they had brought along a provision of hippo-meat which went rotten, and made the mystery of the wilderness stink in my nostrils. Phoo! I can sniff it now." (2.7)
Before you start patting Marlow on the back for being all evolved and anti-racist, notice that he only calls them "fine fellows" if they're "in their place." They're also forced to give up their habit of cannibalism to put their employers at ease. (Although, we're kind of behind that move, to be honest.)