Tom was a trifle embarrassed at finding Eliza in Dr. Gray’s office when he entered, on the next afternoon.  The boss packer seemed different than usual; he was much subdued.  His cough had disappeared, but in its place he suffered a nervous apprehension; his cheeks were pale, the gloom in his eyes had changed to a lurking uneasiness.

“Just dropped in to say I’m all right again,” he announced in an offhand tone.

“That’s good!” said Gray.  “You don’t look well, however.”

“I’m feeling fine!” Mr. Slater hunched his shoulders as if the contact of his shirt was irksome to the flesh.

“You’d better let me rub you.  Why are you scratching yourself?”

“I ain’t scratching.”

“You were!” The doctor was sternly curious; he had assumed his coldest and most professional air.

“Well, if I scratched, I probably itched.  That’s why people scratch, ain’t it?”

“Let me look you over.”  “I can’t spare the time, Doc—­”

“Wait!” Gray’s tone halted the speaker as he turned to leave.  “I’m not going to let you out in this weather until I rub you.”

This time there was no mistaking “Happy Tom’s” pallor.  “I tell you I feel great,” he declared in a shaking voice.  “I—­haven’t felt so good for years.”

“Come, come!  Step into the other room and take off your shirt.”

“Not on your life.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want no more of your dam’ liniment.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m—­because I don’t.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to throw and hog-tie you.”  The physician rose and laid a heavy hand upon his patient’s arm, at which Tom exclaimed: 

“Ouch!  Leggo!  Gimme the stuff and I’ll rub myself.”

“Tom!” The very gravity of the speaker’s voice was portentous, alarming.  Mr. Slater hesitated, his gaze wavered, he scratched his chest unconsciously.

Eliza shook her head pityingly; she uttered an inarticulate murmur of concern.

“You couldn’t get my shirt off with a steam-winch.  I tell you I’m feeling grand.”

“Why will you chew the horrid stuff?” Miss Appleton inquired sadly.

“I’m just a little broke out, that’s all.”

“Ah!  You’re broken out.  I feared so,” said the doctor.

The grave concern in those two faces was too much for Slater’s sensitive nature; his stubbornness gave way, his self-control vanished, and he confessed wretchedly: 

“I spent an awful night, Doc.  I’ll bust into flame if this keeps up.  What is it, anyhow?”

“Is there an eruption of the arms and chest?”

“They’re all erupted to hell.”

Dr. Gray silently parted the shirt over Slater’s bosom.  “Hm-m!” said he.

“Tell him what it is,” urged Eliza, in whom mirth and pity were struggling for mastery.

“It has every appearance of-smallpox!”

The victim uttered a choking cry and sat down limply.  Sweat leaped out upon his face, beads appeared upon his round bald head.