My plans were vague. I had been occupying, at a low rental, a tiny
apartment consisting of two rooms, a bath, and what is called a
"kitchenette" at the top of an old building in Tenth Street which was
about to be pulled down. Part of the roof was gone already, and there
was a six-foot hole under the eaves.

I had arranged to leave the next day, and a storage company was to call
in the morning for my few sticks of furniture. I had half planned to
take boat for Jamaica. I wanted to think and plan.

I had nobody dependent on me, and was resolved to invest my little
fortune in such a way that I might have a modest competence, so that
the dreadful spectre of poverty might never leer at me again.

The Eskimo dog was growing uneasy. It would run from me, looking round
and uttering a succession of short barks, then run back and tug at my
overcoat again. I began to become interested in its manoeuvres.

Evidently it wished me to accompany it, and I wondered who its master
was and how it came to be there.

I stooped and looked at the collar. There was no name on it, except
the maker's, scratched and illegible. I rose and followed the beast,
which showed its eager delight by running ahead of me, turning round at
times to bark, and then continuing on its way with a precision which
showed me that it was certain of its destination.

As I crossed Madison Square the light on the Metropolitan Tower flashed
the first quarter. Broadway was in full glare. The lure of electric
signs winked at me from every corner. The restaurants were disgorging