“Señor, my friend Barry says that an epidemic of cholera is breaking out in this city. He says it is spreading like wildfire and that it will be the worst plague, perhaps, that the Islands have known.”
“The plague we have with us always,” the Señor replied. “The Americans take it too seriously.”
“It rages in the provinces and it has come heavily to many districts here. Barry is greatly worried. He warned me vehemently—and I am afraid. The water, the food, every mouthful, every swallow means danger. More than anything conceivable I fear the Peste. One suffers horribly and cannot die at once. If one could carry always with one something to bring death quickly! I had a friend once who traveled much on railroads where one is in danger of terrible accidents. Once he was buried under the wreckage of a coach and there came an awful time to him, when he feared they would not get him out. After that he carried tied around his neck always a little sack—three grains of morphine—and he was insured. If you would give me the means—to go—quickly in case I were hopelessly stricken, I would not fear any more.”
The Señor stared disquietedly at the counter. “Perhaps, I should have left sooner, I have many children!”
“A teacher who came over on the boat with me has just died of it!” Julie shivered.
“I will tell Sofia!” he muttered, “that it is just as well to go at once. Señor Barry knows.”
“But I must stay, Señor,” the girl pleaded, “in this terror I have no place to go.”
He meditated. “Well, if it makes you feel safe!” He turned to his drawers. “Three grains! Yes,” he reflected, “that should be right.”
The girl picked up the little box nervously. “Thank you, Señor,” she said.