He was a strange and pathetic figure. Naturally superstitious, he had become imbued with illusions, that for ages have lured the imaginations of those who have reached blindly into the unknowable and found only the Ego—the “ruling star” in all horoscopes. Verily, to man, the luminary of the greatest magnitude in the universe is himself. Not content to be silly over little things, he must needs prowl among the constellations and there spin the web of his puny personal affairs, as in theology he assumes the particular concern of the Almighty with his daily doings. Ancient as astrology is, it is not as old as conceit. I was curious to know more of Wattles. At heart I scoffed, but concluded to keep my engagement and ask him to cast my horoscope. On the appointed day I made the little journey. The road led through the woods for a mile or so to a big oak tree that Wattles had described. Here a narrow path left it and followed the course of the river to a long bayou. Beyond the end of the bayou I found some high ground on which perhaps an acre had been cleared. Near the farther edge of the clearing was an unpainted single story house with low eaves. There was some queer looking frame work, and a small platform on the roof. As I approached the door I was confronted with cabalistic characters—painted in black on the wood work. The signs of the Zodiac appeared around the rim of a roughly drawn circle. On a blue background at the top of the door were four stars and a crescent moon in yellow. I assumed that the stars represented the malefics in Wattles’ horoscope. In response to my knock, he opened the door. “Well, I’m glad to see you!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t think you’d come. I thought mebbe you might size me up for a queer bird after all that talk we had on the bridge. Set down an’ make yourself comfortable.” He flung a villainous looking maltese tom cat, that he addressed as “Scorpio,” out of a crippled rocking chair, and I occupied the vacated space. As Scorpio fled through a hole in the bottom of the door, that apparently had been cut for his benefit, I noticed that he was much scarred. One ear was gone, his left eyelid was missing, there were bare places on him where the fur had been removed, evidently with violence, and his tail was not complete. These things imparted a sinister aspect, and I did not like him. He looked like a thoroughly bad cat, and was probably a malefic. It would seem fit that a cat found amid such uncanny surroundings should be black instead of maltese, but as this is a veracious chronicle it is necessary to adhere to facts. We spent some time in desultory conversation before I mentioned the ostensible object of my visit. “Now,” said Wattles, “before I do anything about your horoscope, I want to show some I’ve ben casting,” and he began pulling over some papers on his shelves. While he was doing this I looked around the strange room.