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Late one afternoon in April, Professor Irving stood in his
customary niche at the corner of Fourth Avenue and Ninth Street,
watching the traffic from a sheltered spot against the wall of
the building.  He was becoming exceedingly anxious about the
approaching storm.  It had come up since he left Stuyvesant
Square, and he had no umbrella.  He must not get his silk hat
wet.  His thin overcoat was protecting him but feebly from the
wind, which with the disappearance of the sun had grown sharp
and biting.  It was rapidly becoming dark.  Lights were flashing
in the windows up and down the Avenue.  The Professor decided to
stand in a doorway till the shower had passed over.  The chimes
in the Metropolitan Tower struck the first quarter after four,
the sounds welling in gusts to the old man’s ears.  A little man
came to stand in the doorway beside the Professor.  The latter
saw that the little man had a big umbrella.  Silk hats were so
fearfully expensive