A stout old man in a wig, and with a walking-staff and varnished boots, who stood at the counter in the apothecary's shop, smiled at this.
"Let him grimace as he will," said he. "He'll frighten none but the old women. We know him, and have measured the lengths he can go."
"Nine dead in a week," said Christopher Dent. "That's a deal, Dr. Blue."
"It is nothing," said the physician. "You have your mind fixed on it, and so it seems important. As many will die in the same time of the bloody-flux, and you'll never say a word." Having transacted his business, Dr. Blue grasped his staff firmly and prepared to go. "But if it advance," said he, with stout assurance, "we know how to meet it. The letting of a little blood takes the venom out of these disorders fast enough; and where the lancet will not do a purge will act in its stead. After all," said the doctor, "the pill of aloes and white soap is the final defense of mankind."
After he had gone Christopher turned to Tom Horn.
"I have noticed," said he, "that fat men always talk like that. Little can disturb their confidence. Nevertheless," and he shook his head, "I look to see much trouble from this visitation."
"Of a night," said Tom Horn, "there is a thickness in the air—a warm, slippery thickness such as I've noticed in hot countries in time of pestilence. And the dawn breaks yellow across the Jerseys. I've seen it many a morning of late from my window; people are going about with dread in their faces, and every man looks oddly at his neighbor."
The next week seven only died; and those who were disposed to take the threat lightly, smiled and wore tolerant looks.
"Seven dead," said Christopher, as he looked up from a mortar in which he was grinding some bark; "but do you take heed to those who are ill? There are more poor people tossing on hot beds to-night with yellow death sitting beside them than have ever done so in this region before."
Anthony spoke to Dr. King across the physician's table.