"You sick, Sara?" His fatty-white face lost a shade of its animation.
"Sick?"
"But it ain't, Charley. On his word he promised it ain't! A grand old doc, with whiskers—he promised me that. I—I am just beginning; but the stitch was in time. It ain't a real case yet, Charley. I swear on my mother's curl of hair it ain't."
"Ain't what? Ain't what?"
"It ain't! Air, he said, right living—early hours and all. I gotta get out of the basement. He'll get me a job. A grand old man! Windows open; right living. No—no dancing and all, for a while, Charley. Three months only, Charley; and then—"
"What, I say—"
"It ain't, Charley! I swear it ain't. Just one—the left one—a little sore down at the base—the bottom. Charley, quit looking at me like that! It ain't a real case—it ain't; it ain't!"
"It ain't what?"
"The—the T.B. Just the left one; down at—"
"You—you—" An oath as hot as a live coal dropped from his lips, and he drew back, strangling. "You—you got it, and you're letting me down easy. You got it, and it's catching as hell! You got it, you white devil, and—and you're trying to lie out of it—you—you—"
"Charley! Charley!"