he evil has
greatly increased during the short time he has been away. Fanned by fear
and ignorance, fed by poverty and dirt, the scourge is spreading through
the district like a fire. Long smouldering in secret, it has now burst
forth at fifty different points at once. Not a street, not a court but
has its "case." Over a dozen of John's hands are down with it already.
Two more have sunk prostrate beside their work within the last hour. The
panic grows grotesque. Men and women tear their clothes off, looking to
see if they have anywhere upon them a rash or a patch of mottled skin,
find that they have, or imagine that they have, and rush, screaming, half-
undressed, into the street. Two men, meeting in a narrow passage, both
rush back, too frightened to pass each other. A boy stoops down and
scratches his leg--not an action that under ordinary circumstances would
excite much surprise in that neighbourhood. In an instant there is a
wild stampede from the room, the strong trampling on the weak in their
eagerness to escape.

These are not the days of organised defence against disease. There are
kind hearts and willing hands in London town, but they are not yet
closely enough banded together to meet a swift foe such as this. There
are hospitals and charities galore, but these are mostly in the City,
maintained by the City Fathers for the exclusive benefit of poor citizens
and members of the guilds. The few free hospitals are already
over-crowded and ill-prepared. Squalid, outlying Limehouse, belonging to
nowhere, cared for by nobody, must fight for itself.

John Ingerfield calls the older men together, and with their help
attempts to instil some sense and reason into his terrified people.
Standing on the step of his counting-house, and addressing as many of
them as are not too scared to listen, he tells them of the danger of fear
and of the necessity for calmness and courage.

"We must face and fight this thing like men," he cries, in that deep, din-
conquering voice that has served the Ingerfields in good stead on many a
steel-swept field, on many a storm-struck sea; "there must be no cowardly
selfishness, no faint-hearted despair. If we've got to die we'll die;
but please God we'll live. Anyhow, we will stick together, and help each
other. I mean to stop here with you, and do what I can for you. None of
my people shall want."

John Ingerfield ceases, and as the vibrations of his strong tones roll
away a