I felt his pulse, made general inquiry, but could discover very little the matter with him. Giving him some medicine, I told him to “have a strong heart,” as he would soon be well.
Two or three days afterwards, on a beautiful sunny spring morning, I visited him again, and found he was still lying in the same place. I got him up and out of the old house into the sunlight, but he seemed to grow worse rather than better.
Finally I said to him one day, “Charlie, what’s the matter with you? You are not sick!”
“Oh, you cannot understand my sickness,” he replied.
“Where are you sick? What is the matter?” I continued.
“Oh,” he said, looking very serious, “white man don’t understand my sickness.”
“Tell me where your sickness is?” I urged.
Pulling down his dirty blanket, and putting his hand upon his stomach he said, “It is here. An old conjurer has made me sick. He has blown something into my inside.”
“Oh, nonsense, Charlie!” said I. “It is no such thing. No man has power to do that.”