Dr. Gray silently parted the shirt over Slater's bosom. "Hm-m!" said he.
"Tell him what it is," urged Eliza, in whom mirth and pity were struggling for mastery.
"It has every appearance of-smallpox!"
The victim uttered a choking cry and sat down limply. Sweat leaped out upon his face, beads appeared upon his round bald head.
"I knew I was a sick man. I've felt it coming on for three months, but I fought it off for Murray's sake. Say it's chicken-pox," he pleaded.
"Never mind; it's seldom serious," Eliza endeavored to comfort the stricken man.
"You wanted a good rest-"
"I don't. I want to work."
"I'll have to quarantine you, Tom."
Slater was in no condition for further resistance; a complete collapse of body and mind had followed the intelligence of his illness. He began to complain of many symptoms, none of which were in any way connected with his fancied disease. He was racked with pains, he suffered a terrible nausea, his head swam; he spoke bravely of his destitute family and prepared to make his will. When he left the hospital, an hour later, it was on a stretcher between four straining bearers.