"I remember," continued the other, "an old fellow who used to
live out in the country near me. He was not so very old, either,
but he looked it. He had to be pushed around in a wheel-chair.
People said he had locomotor ataxia, but that really meant
syphilis. We boys used to poke all kinds of fun at him because
one windy day his hat and his wig were blown off together, and we
discovered that he was as bald as an egg. We used to make jokes
about his automobile, as we called it. It had a little handle in
front, instead of a steering-wheel, and a man behind to push,
instead of an engine."

"How horrible!" remarked George with genuine feeling.

"I remember the poor devil had a paralysis soon after," continued
the friend, quite carelessly. "He could not steer any more, and
also he lost his voice. When you met him he would look at you as
it he thought he was talking, but all he could say was
'Ga-ga-ga'."

George went away from this conversation in a cold sweat. He told
himself over and over again that he was a fool, but still he
could not get the hellish idea out of his mind. He found himself
brooding over it all day and lying awake at night, haunted by
images of himself in a wheel-chair, and without any hair on his
head. He realized that the sensible thing would be for him to go
to a doctor and make certain about his condition; but he could
not bring himself to face the ordeal--he was ashamed to admit to
a doctor that he had laid himself open to such a taint.