Because the law forbade the owner of the house to raise the rent any higher on these, his regular tenants, he had hit on the happy idea of cutting off the water. He was out when I got his office on the wire. I left word with the woman’s voice claiming to be his secretary that if the water was still cut off at four o’clock I would report the house to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. This society may have been as helpless in the matter as the one I represented, but I didn’t know of any other threat to make. It had the desired effect. Hardly a day passed without at least one such appeal being made to me. It almost seemed that people had the idea that heartless landlords, dead horses, and deader cats were my specialty. One woman trailed me three successive mornings in a house-to-house search from East Seventy-first Street to East Seventy-ninth and Exterior Streets. The first day she found me I was sitting on the river-wall in the shade of a derrick, eating my lunch—two Georgia peaches. “It’s just a chance I seen you,” she called, as she crossed from the corner. “I told my daughter if I found you I know’d you’d do it, and I set out to find you.” Halting in front of me she wiped the streaming perspiration from her purple and crimson blotched face. “Sit down and tell me about it,” I invited, making room for her in the scanty shade of the derrick. Though I had no recollection of her face, I knew she belonged in some one of the hundreds of homes that I had visited during the past few days. “My grandbaby’s got the browncreeters,” she told me, as taking her seat at my side, she began to fan her face with her apron. “Bronchitis is pretty serious for a young baby,” I admitted; not knowing in what other way I could be of use to her I asked: “Do you want me to have it taken to Bellevue?” She shook her head. “It’s the dead horse, corner of Avenue A. You seen it the day you was at my daughter’s about her dog, a French poodle.” If she had not mentioned the dead horse I certainly would not have remembered her daughter’s dog. All white woolly dogs in the tenements, and about twenty-five per cent are white and woolly, are dignified by the name of French poodle. I did remember the dead horse. “I promised your daughter to telephone the Health Department about that horse, and I did so,” I replied, a bit nettled by her having chased me down after I had explained to her daughter and numerous others in the vicinity of that dead horse that I was not a city employee, had no authority to get dead animals moved. “She knows you did. She watched and seen you go in the drug-store on the corner. Last night when her baby was took so bad her husband went after medicine, and the drug-store man told ’im you’d called up about the horse.” In her eagerness to conciliate she stopped fanning and placed her hot hand on my arm. “They never done nothin’. This sun makes it worse—all swelled up and we’s afraid it’ll bust.”