"But I sha'n't go," I said. "You haven't diagnosed the disease. You don't seem to realize the worst symptom of it all." "What's that?" he asked. I shrugged my shoulders. "I'm an ugly devil," said I. CHAPTER II Italy was no good to me. I had done it all before. There are not many corners in Europe of which Dandy and I are ignorant. I have seen his little footmarks in the snow and the dust in places where few of your so-called travelled folk have ever been. For my sake he has cheerfully suffered quarantine in half the ports of the south. I know Odessa as if I had been born there, waiting for Dandy's release. And when at last he did come out, a mere shadow of what he was, his ribs, a scale of them, protruding from his sides, he executed so violent a war dance of joy as exhausted all the strength left in him. In two minutes he was lying breathless in my arms. Italy I swore to him it should never happen again. "A man wouldn't put up with it, Dandy," said I. "Why should you?" I think he saw the force of it all at the time; but when a few months of good feeding had gone by and I was for setting off East once more, he had forgotten all about Odessa. "No, you're not coming this time," I said to him. He shook his tail and laughed. He didn't believe me. "Oh—that's all very well," I went on, "but remember that God-forsaken spot, Odessa." If you please, he laughed again. "I don't care," said I. "You're not coming. Get off that box, it's going to the station." In time he began to realize it. There came a gradual dropping about his ears. He found his coat-brush in the corner where it always was. His leash was still hanging in the hall. I could see him thinking it out, with a puzzled frown between his eyes as if he were saying—"There's some mistake. He forgets I went with him last time—of course, there's some mistake"—whereat, half-convincing himself that there was, his ears pricked up and he began his get-ready-to-go-out dance, a wild exhibition of terpsichorean art, on his hind legs. "You're not coming,
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