"Search me." The petty slang made a grim medium for the uncertainty of terror which it sought to express. "They've had it over in the Rookeries since winter. There ain't no name for it. They just call it the Death."
"The Rookeries?" said Hal, caught by the word. "Where are they?"
"Don't you know the Rookeries?" The girl pointed to the long double row of grisly wooden edifices down the street. "Them's Sadler's Shacks on this side, and Tammany Barracks on the other. They go all the way around the block."
"You say the sickness has been in there?"
"Yes. Now it's broken out an' we'll all get it an' die," she wailed.
A little, squat, dark man hurried past them. He nodded, but did not pause.
"I know him," said Hal. "Who is he?"
"Doc De Vito. He tends to all the cases. But it's no good. They all die."
"You keep your head," advised Hal. "Don't be scared. And wash your hands and face thoroughly as soon as you get home."
"A lot o' good that'll do against the Death," she said scornfully, and left him.