The downpour began to assume the proportions of a torrent. Moisse persisted in his tracks. Someone touched his elbow. He turned and found a little old man with faded eyes and threadbare, dripping clothes smiling earnestly at his side. The little old man was bent in the shoulders. His shirt had no collar. His brown coat was buttoned to his neck. His face screwed up by a sensitiveness to the cataract of drops beating against it, was round and full of wrinkles. It had the quizzical, goodnatured look of a fuzzy little dog. His wet eyes that seemed to be swimming in a red moisture peered at Moisse who was frowning. “I’m hungry,” began the little old man, “I ain’t had anything to eat—” “How much do you want?” inquired Moisse. “Anything,” said the beggar. The young dramatist felt in his pocket. A single half-dollar encountered his fingers. “I’ve only got a half-dollar,” he said, “I’ll get it changed. Come on.” The two of them walked in silence, Moisse still sauntering, the little old man bent over and looking as if he wanted to speak but was afraid of dissipating a dream. “Wait here,” Moisse said suddenly, “I’ll go in and get change.” He stepped into the box office of one of the large moving-picture theaters on the avenue and secured change. The little old man had followed him inside the building, his eyes watching him with an eager curiosity. Moisse turned with the change to find the beggar at his elbow. He handed him fifteen cents. “What’s the matter?” he inquired. “Been drinking?” “No, no,” said the beggar. “Why haven’t you?” persisted Moisse frowning; “don’t you know there’s nothing for you but drink. That’s what drink is for. Men like you.” The faded eyes livened. “Now you go and get yourself three good shots of booze,” went on Moisse, “and you’ll be a new man for the rest of the day.” The beggar had become excited. His lips moved in a nervous delight but he uttered no sound. With the fingers of his right hand he picked at the blackened and roughly-bitten nails of his other. He cleared his throat and then as if suddenly inspired, removed his drenched hat and raised his eyebrows. Touched by the sincerity of the little old man’s emotions the young dramatist reached into his pocket and brought forth another ten cent piece. “Here,” he said, “buy two more drinks.” The little man seemed about to break into a dance. His face became tinged with the pink of an old woman’s cheek. The red moisture ran out of his eyes in two white tears. Moisse regarded him, frowning. “Once you were young as I am today,” said Moisse aloud, fastening his eyes upon the top of the little old man’s head which seemed dirty and bald despite the pale hair, and alive. “Perhaps you had ambitions and then some commonplace occurred and you lost them. And now you float around begging nickles. That’s interesting. A little old man begging nickles in the rain.” The beggar smiled eagerly and then ventured a slight laugh.