There were two fresh cases that night!
I shall not attempt to describe the horrors that filled the next three
weeks. But, not for the first time, I was struck by the heroism and
self-sacrifice of these rude foothill folk, whose great qualities
shine brightest in the dark hours of adversity. My brother and I had
passed through the big boom, when our part of California had become of
a sudden a Tom Tiddler's ground, where the youngest and simplest could
pick up gold and silver. We had seen our county drunk with prosperity
--drunk and disorderly. And we had seen also these same revellers
chastened by low prices, dry seasons, and commercial stagnation. But
we had yet to witness the crowning sobering effect of a raging
pestilence.
The little schoolmarm, Alethea-Belle Buchanan, organised the women
into a staff of nurses. Mrs. Dumble enrolled herself amongst the band.
Did she take comfort in the thought that she was wiping out John Jacob
Dumble's innumerable rogueries? Let us hope so.
Within a week yellow bunting waved from half a score of cottages in
and about Paradise. And then, one heavenly morning, as we were riding
into the village, we saw the hideous warning fluttering outside George
Leadham's door.
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