"I want a certificate."
"Of what?"
"Ill health. Nobody believes I had the smallpox."
"You didn't."
"Wh-what?" Tom's eyes opened wide. He stared at the girl in hurt surprise.
"It was nothing but pimples, Tom."
"Pimples!" He spat the word out indignantly, and his round cheeks grew purple. "I—I s'pose pimples gave me cramps and chills and backache and palpitation and swellings! Hunh! I had a narrow escape—narrow's the word. It was narrower than a knife-edge! Anything I get out of life from now on is 'velvet,' for I was knocking at death's door. The grave yawned, but I jumped it. It's the first sick spell I ever had, and I won't be cheated out of it. Understand?"
"What do you want me to do?" smiled the girl.
"You're a writer: write me an affidavit—"
"I can't do that."