That set off a rough chuckle, which set of another fit of coughing. But this fit wasn't as long as the last. But it had his chest hurting just as bad. Even with all that noise. He'd caught the man's name, and the fact that he'd just said there was a cure. When the doctor in Saint Denis had pretty much handed him a death sentence. "I've been trying this bugger, as you put it, to piss off for a couple months now. But tell me John, if I you don't mind me calling you that, was I hallucinating when you said it can be treated?" He'd worry about the 'these days' part later. Because while he'd made his peace with it, made sure the people he felt responsible for were safe. But that didn't mean he wanted to die.
He had thought for a second to give the man his alias. But Tacitus, at least, was dead. "I'm Arthur, Arthur Morgan. I'd offer to shake your hand but..." He held his palm out to show that it was well and truly coated with infectious blood. Even if there was a cure, surely this fellow wouldn't want to catch what he had.