What could I say? I had done my best and nothing had come of it. Living in the tenements I knew how hideous night could be made by a stench. This dead horse was worse than anything that I had had to endure. “I thought if I paid for the telephone you wouldn’t mind speakin’ again.” Gouging down in her stocking she brought up a rusty leather pocketbook. “My grandbaby’s awful sick!” There was no use trying to reason with her, trying to explain. Besides, it was a very small favor to ask for a sick baby. She followed me to the nearest drug-store, stood at the door of the telephone-booth, and listened while I begged for the removal of the dead horse—called attention to the number of children in the vicinity, and made special mention of her sick grandbaby. The next day but one I saw her coming toward me across the hot sun-baked playground of John Jay Park. There were deep circles under her eyes, and in spite of the heat her heavy cheeks were only slightly colored. “I hunted for you yesterday, everywhere, but I missed you,” she reproached, as I met her in the middle of the scorching-hot playground. “That dead horse— It’s terrible and the dogs——” “Come on,” I interrupted, leading the way to the drug-store. “Now that the dogs are after it I can get it moved. That’s what the society is for—protecting dogs.” Back in the same telephone-booth I called up the same city department, was answered by the same operator, who gave me the same official. After telling him that I was an inspector for the A. S. P. C. A., I told him of the dead horse, the number of days it had been on the street, and that the dogs were after it. “You must give us time,” he drawled. “New York is a good big city, you know, and——” “Yes, and you get a good big salary,” I clipped in, imitating his drawl, and making my voice as insolent as possible. “I don’t care a whoop about your time. It’s my business to protect the health of the dogs in this district. I report at Society headquarters every afternoon at five. On my way I shall make a point of passing that corner. If I see any dogs around that dead horse I shall report it to our manager, Mr. Horton. He’ll know what to do.” I hung up the receiver with a snap. As I stepped out of the booth the boy at the soda-fountain spoke to me. “Telephoning about that dead horse, lady?” He shook his head as he filled a glass with fizz. “Wastin’ good money. Must’ve been a hundred people in here in the last three days telephonin’ about that horse.” “My grandbaby’s so sick,” the woman at my side wailed. “Seems like——” “Much they care about sick babies!” the stouter of two young women for whom the boy was mixing drinks sneered, and she eyed me insolently. “They’re too busy sweeping Park and Fifth Avenues—afraid the dust’ll speck the white marble palaces of the millionaires.”