deposit food-supplies, medicines, and written doctors'
instructions, retreating as hastily as they came. Here, also, was a
blackboard upon which Daughtry was instructed to chalk up his needs and
requests in letters of such size that they could be read from a distance.
And on this board, for many days, he wrote, not demands for beer,
although the six-quart daily custom had been broken sharply off, but
demands like:

WHERE IS MY DOG?

HE IS AN IRISH TERRIER.

HE IS ROUGH-COATED.

HIS NAME IS KILLENY BOY.

I WANT MY DOG.

I WANT TO TALK TO DOC. EMORY.

TELL DOC. EMORY TO WRITE TO ME ABOUT MY DOG.

One day, Dag Daughtry wrote:

IF I DON'T GET MY DOG I WILL KILL DOC. EMORY.

Whereupon the newspapers informed the public that the sad case of the two
lepers at the pest-house had become tragic, because the white one had
gone insane. Public-spirited citizens wrote to the papers, declaiming
against the maintenance of such a danger to the community, and demanding
that the United States government build a national leprosarium on some
remote island or isolated mountain peak. But this tiny ripple of
interest faded out in seventy-two hours, and the reporter-cubs proceeded
variously to interest the public in the Alaskan husky dog that was half a
bear, in the question whether or not Crispi Angelotti was guilty of
having cut the carcass of Giuseppe Bartholdi into small portions and
thrown it into the bay in a grain-sack off Fisherman's Wharf, and in the
overt designs of Japan upon Hawaii, the Philippines, and the Pacific
Coast of North America.

And, outside of imprisonment, nothing happened of interest to Dag
Daughtry and Kwaque at the pest-house until one night in the late fall. A
gale was not merely brewing. It was coming on to blow. Because, in a
basket of fruit, stated to have been sent by the young ladies of Miss
Foote's Seminary, Daughtry had read a note artfully concealed in the
heart of an apple, telling him on the forthcoming Friday night to keep a
light burning in his window. Daughtry received a visitor at five in the
morning.

It was Charles Stough Greenleaf, the Ancient Mariner himself. Having
wallowed for two hours through the deep sand of the eucalyptus forest, he
fell exhausted against the penthouse door. When Daughtry opened it, the
ancient one blew in upon him along with a gusty wet splatter of the
freshening gale. Daughtry caught him first and supported him toward a
cha