"Malaria," he observed. "The learned professor assures me that
it's a typical malaria."
"Then it isn't the plague," said Carroll, relieved.
His relief was of brief duration.
"Of course it's plague. But if Professor Silk Hat, in there,
officially declared it such, he'd have bracelets on his arms in
twelve hours. The present Government of Caracuia doesn't believe
in bubonic plague. I fancy our unfortunate friend in there will
presently disappear, either just before or just after death. It
doesn't greatly matter."
"What is to be done now?" asked Carroll.
"See that brush fire up there?" The hermit pointed to the
hillside. "If we steep ourselves in that smoke until we choke, I
think it will discourage any fleas that may have harbored on us.
The flea is the only agent of communication."
Soot-begrimed, strangling, and with streaming eyes, they emerged,
five minutes later, from the cloud of smoke. From his pocket the
Unspeakable Perk dragged forth his white gloves. The action
attracted his companion's attention.
"Good Lord!" he cried. "What has happened to your hands?"
"They're blistered.
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