When they opened the door of Rumble's shop, the old pawnbroker looked up in surprise. The tempest seemed to have blown his visitors in. The windows rattled; the lights flared; fantastic garments, made in the style of by-gone centuries, swayed to and fro where they hung, as though the shapes that might have worn them haunted the place; a set of armor, that stood in one corner, clanked as though the spirit of some dead paladin had entered it and was striving to stalk forth and do battle with the demons of the storm; while the gust that had occasioned all this commotion in the little shop went careering through the rooms at the rear, causing papers to fly, doors to slam, and a sweet voice to exclaim: "Why, father, what is the matter?" "Nothing, my dear, it is only the wind," answered the old man, as he advanced to receive his visitors. The one with whom he was acquainted nodded familiarly to the pawnbroker, while he of the rueful countenance pulled off his ulster and threw it on the counter, saying: "How much will you give me on that?" Rumble, who was a large man, rather fleshy and slow of movement, started toward the back of the shop with a lazy roll, like a ship under half sail. He made a tack around the end of the counter and hove to behind it, opposite the men who had just come in. He pulled his spectacles down from the top of his bald head, where they had been resting, drew the coat toward him, looked at it for an instant, then raised his eyes till they met those of his customer. "How much do you think it is worth?" he said, uttering the words slowly and casting a commiserating glance at the thinly-clad form of the man before him. "I paid twenty dollars for it," said the young man. "It is worth ten dollars, isn't it?" "Oh, yes!" returned the pawnbroker. "Shall I loan you ten dollars on it?" "If you please," answered his customer, whose face brightened when he heard the pawnbroker's words. He had thought he might get five dollars on the ulster. The prospect of getting ten made him feel like a man of affluence. The pawnbroker opened a book and began to fill the blanks in one of the many printed slips it contained. One of the blanks he filled with his customer's name, James Teague. That was his real name, not the one by which he was known to the stage and to fame. That was far more aristocratical. As Rumble handed Teague the ticket and the ten dollars, he took a stealthy survey of his slender and poorly-clad form, then glanced toward the window on which great flakes of snow were constantly beating, driven against it by the wind that howled fiendishly as it went through the street, playing havoc with shutters and making the swinging sign-boards creak uncannily. "Mr. Dixon," said the pawnbroker, turning to Teague's companion, "will not you and your friend wait awhile until the storm slackens? It is pleasanter here by the fire than it is outside."