XIX
JUST WHAT I SUSPECTED
HARRY wearily dragged his left leg over the edge of the canoe. He hoisted one of the bags to his back, braced himself against the current, and waded laboriously around the slippery rocks, straining to keep his foothold. Ahead of him and behind him came the other men, doing the same. How many hundreds of times had he done this in the last weeks? His shoulders ached. The boil on his head was unbearable. “I don’t think I can stand another day with this boil on my head. It’s been killing me. Come and see what you can do with it, Harold.” The sore on Harry’s head was daily increasing in size and painfulness. “Maybe it isn’t ready to squeeze yet.” “It couldn’t hurt worse, no matter what happened to it. We’ve got to do something.” Harold bathed the swelling, but nothing happened. The throbbing pain became sharper. “Let me have a try, Harry.”
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