For days he tried to put it to one side. The idea was nonsense, it was absurd in connection with a woman so respectable! But the thought would not be put away, and finally he went to a school friend, who was a man of the world, and got him to talk on the subject. Of course, George had to be careful, so that his friend should not suspect that he had any special purpose in mind. The friend was willing to talk. It was a vile disease, he said; but one was foolish to bother about it, because it was so rare. There were other diseases which fellows got, which nearly every fellow had, and to which none of them paid any attention. But one seldom met anyone who had the red plague that George dreaded. “And yet,” he added, “according to the books, it isn’t so uncommon. I suppose the truth is that people hide it. A chap naturally wouldn’t tell, when he knew it would damn him for life.” George had a sick sensation inside of him. “Is it as bad as that?” he asked. “Of course,” said the other, “Should you want to have anything to do with a person who had it? Should you be willing to room with him or travel with him? You wouldn’t even want to shake hands with him!” “No, I suppose not,” said George, feebly. “I remember,” continued the other, “an old fellow who used to live out in the country near me. He was not so very old, either, but he looked it. He had to be pushed around in a wheel-chair. People said he had locomotor ataxia, but that really meant syphilis. We boys used to poke all kinds of fun at him because one windy day his hat and his wig were blown off together, and we discovered that he was as bald as an egg. We used to make jokes about his automobile, as we called it. It had a little handle in front, instead of a steering-wheel, and a man behind to push, instead of an engine.” “How horrible!” remarked George with genuine feeling. “I remember the poor devil had a paralysis soon after,” continued the friend, quite carelessly. “He could not steer any more, and also he lost his voice. When you met him he would look at you as it he thought he was talking, but all he could say was ‘Ga-ga-ga’.” George went away from this conversation in a cold sweat. He told himself over and over again that he was a fool, but still he could not get the hellish idea out of his mind. He found himself brooding over it all day and lying awake at night, haunted by images of himself in a wheel-chair, and without any hair on his head. He realized that the sensible thing would be for him to go to a doctor and make certain about his condition; but he could not bring himself to face the ordeal--he was ashamed to admit to a doctor that he had laid himself open to such a taint.