of the light footstep, Harold lifted his head from arms where he had been half asleep. “Harry!” The appalling thinness of the man before him, the weary eyes like hollows in the bearded face, bore witness to his simple comment. “It’s been terrible!” There followed the story of those who had died, and with them the fine old captain. “There arc many more dying there.” Harold pointed to the long houses. “I’ve been grating and roasting manioc to keep the sick from starving. None of them can work. Burying the dead has taken so much time!” The continuous question, “When is Ari coming back?” had answered itself. The arrival of Harry and the Gene MacArthurs brought new hope. Piles of wood were chopped and fires burned. Manioc was soaked, grated, roasted, and baked in banana leaves. Buckets of water were hauled. Many seemed too near death to survive: The hypodermic needles and syringes never rested. Children and old people alike lay on the ground on filthy mats in the stupor of fever. Some were so swollen with the rash as to appear grotesque. Two days in succession the death wail did not sound, but the third was a day of grief. Death claimed four victims, and the sad chanting in a minor key continued throughout the night. A little boy in the toddling stage had now been added to the
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