"Where?"
"Out to the boat where he is. I'll show you."
"You won't show me no smallpox," asserted one of the committee.
"Then YOU come with me," the physician urged the leader.
"So you can bottle me up, too? No, thank you!"
"Get the town photographer with his flashlight. We'll help him make a picture; then you can show it to the others. I promise not to quarantine you."
After some hesitation the men agreed to this; the photographer was summoned and joined the party on its way to the floating pest-house.
It was not a pleasant place in which they found Tom Slater, for the cabin of the fishing-boat was neither light nor airy, but Eliza had done much to make it agreeable. The sick man was propped up in his bunk and playing solitaire, but he left off his occupation to groan as the new-comers came alongside.
When the cause of the visit had been made known, however, he rebelled.
"I won't pose for no camera fiend," he declared, loudly. "It ain't decent and I'm too sick. D'you take me for a bearded lady or a living skeleton?"