While he was attending to their wants, the hospital-steward entered and went into Leon's room.
He stayed there about a quarter of an hour, and when he came out the trader was alone.
"What's the matter with that boy?" he asked.
"Nostalgia; and I suppose that is one of the worst things a poor mortal can be afflicted with," replied the steward. "I have known it to throw every raw recruit in a battalion flat on his back."
"Jerusalem!" cried the trader, his face betraying the greatest consternation. "Is it as bad as that?"
He did not understand the learned term which the steward had applied to Leon's malady, but believing that a disease that bore a name like that must of necessity be something dreadful, he was very badly frightened.
If there was any one thing of which he stood in the most abject fear, it was contagion. He had had some experience with it during his life among the Indians.
The steward, who seemed somewhat surprised at the trader's words and actions, replied:
"Yes, he is a pretty sick boy. He has told me his story, and I'm going to speak to the doctor about him at once. He ought to be shipped back to the States with as little delay as possible."
The steward went out, and the trader paced up and down behind his counter in a state of mind bordering on frenzy.