the summer of 1899 when I pulled out. I didn't say anything to Steve. I
just sneaked. But I fixed it up all right. I wrote Steve a note, and
enclosed a package of "rough-on-rats," telling him what to do with it. I
was worn down to skin and bone by that Spot, and I was that nervous that
I'd jump and look around when there wasn't anybody within hailing
distance. But it was astonishing the way I recuperated when I got quit
of him. I got back twenty pounds before I arrived in San Francisco, and
by the time I'd crossed the ferry to Oakland I was my old self again, so
that even my wife looked in vain for any change in me.

Steve wrote to me once, and his letter seemed irritated. He took it kind
of hard because I'd left him with Spot. Also, he said he'd used the
"rough-on-rats," per directions, and that there was nothing doing. A
year went by. I was back in the office and prospering in all ways--even
getting a bit fat. And then Steve arrived. He didn't look me up. I
read his name in the steamer list, and wondered why. But I didn't wonder
long. I got up one morning and found that Spot chained to the gate-post
and holding up the milkman. Steve went north to Seattle, I learned, that
very morning. I didn't put on any more weight. My wife made me buy him
a collar and tag, and within an hour he showed his gratitude by killing
her pet Persian cat. There is no getting rid of that Spot. He will be
with me until I die, for he'll never die. My appetite is not so good
since he arrived, and my wife says I am looking peaked. Last night that
Spot got into Mr. Harvey's hen-house (Harvey is my next-door neighbour)
and killed nineteen of his fancy-bred chickens. I shall have to pay for
them. My neighbours on the other side quarrelled with my wife and then
moved out. Spot was the cause of it. And that is why I am disappointed
in Stephen Mackaye. I had no idea he was so mean a man.