"I see!" Eliza's eyes were bright with a wistful admiration. "That's very nice of you men. You have a family, haven't you, Uncle Tom?" "I have! Seven head, and they eat like a herd of stock. It looks like a lean winter for 'em if Murray don't make a sale--but he will. That isn't what I came to see you about; I've got my asking clothes on, and I want a favor." "You shall have it, of course." "I want a certificate." "Of what?" "Ill health. Nobody believes I had the smallpox." "You didn't." "Wh-what?" Tom's eyes opened wide. He stared at the girl in hurt surprise. "It was nothing but pimples, Tom." "Pimples!" He spat the word out indignantly, and his round cheeks grew purple. "I--I s'pose pimples gave me cramps and chills and backache and palpitation and swellings! Hunh! I had a narrow escape--narrow's the word. It was narrower than a knife-edge! Anything I get out of life from now on is 'velvet,' for I was knocking at death's door. The grave yawned, but I jumped it. It's the first sick spell I ever had, and I won't be cheated out of it. Understand?" "What do you want me to do?" smiled the girl. "You're a writer: write me an affidavit--" "I can't do that." "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. "What about those shift bosses?" she asked. Slater rolled his eyes balefully. "Just let one of 'em mention smallpox," he said, "and I'll fill the hospital till it bulges." "No, no! Are you going to pay them?" "Certainly not." Eliza considered for a moment. "Don't let them see Dr. Gray," she said, at length. "He has enough to worry him. Meet them at the train and bring them here." "What for? Tea?" "You boys have done all you can; I think it's time Dan and I did something." Tom stared. "Are YOU going to pay 'em?" he asked, gruffly. "Yes. Mr. O'Neil needs time. Dan and I have saved four thousand dollars. I'd offer it to Dr. Gray--" "He wouldn't take it." "Exactly. Send Dan up here when you see him."