“And what can I do?” said Peter, sympathetically, if very much at sea.
“Missy wants to see you before she goes. It’s only a child’s wish, sir, and you needn’t trouble about it. But I had to promise her I’d come and ask you. I hope it’s no offence?”
“No.” Peter rose, and, passing to the next room, took his hat, and the two went into the street together.
“What is the trouble?” asked Peter, as they walked.
“We don’t know, sir. They were all took yesterday, and two are dead already.” The man wiped the tears from his eyes with his shirtsleeve, smearing the red brick dust with which it was powdered, over his face.
“You’ve had a doctor?”
“Not till this morning. We didn’t think it was bad at first.”
“What is your name?”
“Blackett, sir—Jim Blackett.”
Peter began to see daylight. He remembered both a Sally and Matilda Blackett.—That was probably “Missy.”