The things were horribly heavy.
As they retraced their way to the river bank they were stopped three times by loungers collected in groups of half a dozen and had to show them the cartons' contents and explain that it was for the sick people across the river.
There was a long wait before they could hail one of the boats passing back and forth; finally a rowboat with a roaring outboard motor pulled up. Two men with American Legion caps manned it. They explained their mission and were taken aboard. One of the Legionnaires asked: "How are things in Old Town?"
"Breaking up fast," Groff said.
The man understood perfectly. "The goons," he said, nodding. "There's talk about sending in the National Guard," he said. "Meanwhile I guess it's our problem."
He took the heavier carton from Groff when they reached the river bank and Groff took Polly's; together they walked to the gymnasium where Harry Starkman lay.
One of the doctors—Brandeis?—looked at the lecture bottles dully, took one and shambled over to the burgess's litter. He drew the blanket over Starkman's face, slipped the bottle under and cracked the needle valve for a few hissing minutes, then checked the old man's pulse.
"Very good," he said at last to Groff and Polly. "There's something to hope for now. Now clear out, you two. Find something useful to do."
"There's going to be trouble in Old Town tonight," Groff said. "And it may spill over here."
Polly, preoccupied, said, "The number is still imperfect. Two of us will have to go. I do hope it won't be you, Mickey."