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 li............