Since his childhood, he said, persons contemplating matrimony, sea voyages or hunting trips had come for miles to touch him, knowing they would be fortunate because of the touch. It was this gift, he said, that had led him to join the army; for so many had gone to fight, and so many were afraid of being hanged if they guessed wrongly which side they should take in the Rebellion, and so many were in danger of losing all their small savings through the increasing worthlessness of the currency, that his house was over-run, day and night, with people possessed to touch him for good luck.

They came from as far away as Falmouth and York, he said, arriving at his house at two and three o’clock in the morning, or at dawn or supper-time or any time at all, and pounding on the door until he allowed himself to be touched. Then, as like as not, he would have to provide them with food or rum; and all this touching and feeding people had come to be so tiring and annoying to him that he thought going to war would let him lead a quieter life and get more sleep.

Whatever it was that gave him his singular power, it did us more of a service than all his fright remedies and wart eradicators; for it cured Joseph Marie Verrieul and made him our friend, which turned out to be a matter of importance to me.

… As Doc had predicted, our symptoms vanished in two days, and for the next week we fared sumptuously on fish chowders made of trout, milk and hard bread, and on messes of greens that Zelph was indefatigable in gathering. On the seventh day we were hard put to it, even, to find a pustule, which proved to be fortunate; for toward sundown of that chilly gray day we heard a raucous voice singing a French song about rolling a ball.

“Behind our house there is a pond,” the song ran, “Roll on, my ball, roll on: Three beautiful ducks are bathing themselves in it: roll, roll, my rolling ball: Roll on, my ball, roll on.”

“There’s Cap!” Nason said.

It was indeed Cap and his gray mare; but he was not riding the mare: he was leading her; and on her back, slung across the saddle like a sack of meal, was the body of a man.

“Come get him!” Cap shouted.

“Has he had the smallpox?” Nason called.

Cap stopped the horse, put his hand on the man’s shoulder and roared at him, “Hey! have you had the smallpox?”

The man just hung there.

Cap shouted again and shook him; crouched beside him and examined his face; then announced, “He’s got a pit under his ear and two on his forehead.”

“Go ahead and get him,” Nason told us.