John Ingerfield finds, on his return to Limehouse, that the 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