Impelled by this covert and ingeniously mystic suggestion, Wattles had procured all the literature he could find on the subject of astrology, and had studied it carefully. He hoped that he might find error in his horoscope, but the more he studied the more he believed. He had been touched with a hypnotic wand and had drifted into the toils of a remorseless power. The opinion expressed by one of his friends on the steamboat that “the old party who cast the horoscope was probably drunk” had no weight with Wattles. There were too many confirmations of planet positions and significations in the astrological almanacs and related literature that he had succeeded in accumulating. There was a postscript at the end of the delineation. Somewhere in the realms of infinite space the white bearded prophet felt the presence of a strange and malign star, that, for lack of data at hand, could not be named. Its unknown orbit dimly intersected the fate lines of Wattles. At some crisis in his affairs it would unexpectedly become manifest and would have a woeful significance. Wattles pondered long upon the missing star in his horoscope, and had vainly sought it in his studies. There appeared to be nothing in his books that could lead to a solution, and the unknown malefic besieged his soul with a haunting fear. “I got to keep track of all them heavenly bodies, and if that damn star ever shows up I must get a line on it,” he declared, as he folded up his horoscope. “I’ve got all the almanacs, and I know where ev’rything is all the time. I’ve studied astrology ’till I’ve ben black in the face, and I’m an expert caster. I’m goin’ to cast horoscopes right along now. There’s my significator comin’ up, an’ its in Aquarius now,” he remarked, and he pointed to Mars that had just scaled the tree tops in the east. He offered, “for the small sum of fifty cents,” to sell me an unlabelled bottle of brown liquid, which he said was “an excellent tonic” that he made himself. He called it “Wahoo Bitters.” I made the purchase and placed the precious compound on the bridge rail. He took a small book from his pocket, which he consulted for a moment, and then invited me to visit him if I would come at a particular hour on Thursday of the following week. This I promised to do if possible. He told me how to find his house, gratefully accepted another cigar, and bade me good night. He then softly mingled with the shadows of the woods with his bag of roots. I pushed the Wahoo Bitters gently over into the river and continued my walk.