it is a winter evening. already, at four o’clock, the somber hues of night are over all. a heavy snow is falling, a fine, picking, whipping snow, borne forward by a swift wind in long, thin lines. the street is bedded with it, six inches of cold, soft carpet, churned brown by the crush of teams and the feet of men. along the bowery men slouch through it with collars up and hats pulled over their ears.

before a dirty, four-story building gathers a crowd of men. it begins with the approach of two or three, who hang about the closed wooden door and beat their feet to keep them warm. they make no effort to go in, but shift ruefully about, digging their hands deep in their pockets and leering at the crowd and the increasing lamps. there are old men with grizzled beards and sunken eyes; men who are comparatively young but shrunken by disease; men who are middle-aged.

with the growth of the crowd about the door comes a murmur. it is not conversation, but a running comment directed at any one. it contains oaths and slang phrases.

“i wisht they’d hurry up.”

“look at the cop watchin’.”

“maybe it ain’t winter, nuther.”

“i wisht i was with peary.”

the men in the storm

now a sharper lash of wind cuts down, and they231 huddle closer. there is no anger, no threatening words. it is all sullen endurance, unlightened by either wit or good fellowship.

an automobile goes jingling by with some reclining figure in it. one of the members nearest the door sees it.

“look at the bloke ridin’!”

“he ain’t so cold.”

“eh! eh! eh!” yells another, the automobile having long since passed out of hearing.

little by little the night creeps on. along the walk a crowd hurries on its way home. still the men hang around the door, unwavering.

“ain’t they ever goin’ to open up?” queries a hoarse voice suggestively.

this seems to renew general interest in the closed door, and many gaze in that direction. they look at it as dumb brutes look, as dogs paw and whine and study the knob. they shift and blink and mutter, now a curse, now a comment. still they wait, and still the snow whirls and cuts them.

a glimmer appears through the transom overhead, where some one is lighting the light. it sends a thrill of possibility through the watchers. on the old hats and peaked shoulders snow is piling. it gathers in little heaps and curves, and no one brushes it off. in the center of the crowd the warmth and steam melt it and water trickles off hat-rims and down noses, which the owners cannot reach to scratch. on the outer rim the piles remain unmelted. those who cannot get in the232 center, lower their heads to the weather and bend their forms.

at last the bars grate inside, and the crowd pricks up its ears. there is some one who calls: “slow up there, now!” and then the door opens. it is push and jam for a minute, with grim, beast silence to prove its quality, and then the crowd lessens. it melts inward, like logs floating, and disappears. there are wet hats and shoulders, a cold, shrunken, disgruntled mass pouring in between bleak walls. it is just six o’clock, and there is supper in every hurrying pedestrian’s face.

“do you sell anything to eat here?” one questions of the grizzled old carpet-slippers who opens the door.

“no, nuthin but beds.”

the waiting throng had been housed for the night.