He read it—looked at me with wonder and yet fear in his eyes.
"Are you serious?" he asked.
"As serious as a man can be at this time of night, but sign it—no harm done anyway," I replied.
He signed. It was an I.O.U. for £5,000—provided the conditions were fulfilled.
That was all—no conditions were mentioned.
This conversation was vividly recalled to my mind by the tramp, for on his wrist was a bright circular spot, with an inflamed angry-looking blush around it.
"How long have you had that, my man?" I inquired.
"I got that unloading skins at Bristol two days ago," he growled, "and damnation bad I be with it."
I examined it carefully. It was anthrax—malignant pustule—without a doubt.
"If that is not removed immediately," I said to him, "it's all up with you, Master Bob Gye. Do you understand, it's got to be cut out to save your life."
The poor wretch became suddenly faint, and a deadly livid pallor took the place of his beery redness, the while his knees were tremblng violently.
