"Then put it in your paper. Put it on the front page, where folks can see it."
"I've quit The Review. I'm doing magazine stories."
"Well, that'll do. I'm not particular where it's printed so long as—"
Eliza shook her head. "You weren't really sick, Uncle Tom."
At this Mr. Slater rose to his feet in high dudgeon.
"Don't call me 'Uncle,'" he exclaimed. "You're in with the others."
"It wouldn't be published if I wrote it."
"Then you can't be much of a writer." He glared at her, and slowly, distinctly, with all the emphasis at his command, said: "I had smallpox—and a dam' bad case, understand? I was sick. I had miseries in every joint and cartage of my body. I'm going to use a pick-handle for a cane, and anybody that laughs will get a hickory massage that'll take a crooked needle and a pair of pinchers to fix. Thank God I've got my strength back! You get me?"
"I do."
He snorted irately and turned to go, but Eliza checked him.