Tom doubled his long frame and stooped over Harry, where he sat on a fallen log, the picture of misery. “Ouch, ouch! Oh, well, never mind me, brother! Go ahead and probe.” “Just what I suspected!” “What are you suspecting me of? Do something, pull-eeze!” Tom grinned. “Good news, Harry. You’ve got a berno [worm] in your scalp, and it’s a big, healthy one.” “Go on. No mere worm could feel this bad! How do you know that’s what it is?” “I can see it. This comes from an egg laid by a small fly that bores through the skin. Then the egg hatches, and the worm grows. It can cause dangerous pressure on the brain. We’ll have to get it out.” “The quicker the better. I feel dangerous already. There’s pressure on every speck of gray matter my brain’s ever had.” “We can’t do anything tonight. It’s too dark to see. Try and get some sleep, and I’ll take it out in the morning.” “That’s a joy to look forward to. Well, thanks, Tom.” When the men sat on the side of a rapids about noontime, Tom tried to take the berno out of Harry’s head, but it just wouldn’t come. “Here, Mr. Harry, put some of this tobacco on it,” counseled Pedro. “The worm will soon feel bad and stick its head out for air. Then we’ll get it.” “Bring the tobacco. I hope Mr. Worm feels just half as bad as I
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