We could get off without his help, and he was the sort of man who would cheerfully have gone to his last long sleep at the bottom of that boiling river rather than accept the assistance of an enemy.
The next couple of hours was a season of aching back, and sloppy feet, and grunting, and swearing that I don't much care about remembering in detail.
The wind blew till the tears ran down our cheeks.

The sand stuck and clogged every move we made till I used to dream of it afterward.

If you think it was just a simple little job, taking that rig to pieces and packing it to dry land on our backs, just give another guess.

And if you think we were any of us in a mood to look at it as a joke, you're miles off the track.
Pochette helped us like a little man--he had to, or we'd have done him up right there.

Old King sat on the ferry-rail and smoked, and watched us break our backs sardonically--I did think I had that last word in the wrong place; but I think not.