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where the woman and her little boy were going to Vermont
and he tapped the man on the shoulder and said amiably, “Try down on West
Seventeen. About the middle of the block, people moved out this morning.”
    “Say, what do
you—” said the man, and then, seeing Mr. Johnson clearly, “Well, thanks. Where
did you say?”
    “West Seventeen,”
said Mr. Johnson. “About the middle of the block.” He smiled again and said, “Good
luck.”
    “Thanks,” said
the man.
    “Thanks,” said
the girl, as they moved off.
    “Goodbye,” said Mr.
Johnson.
    He lunched alone
in a pleasant restaurant, where the food was rich, and only Mr. Johnson’s
excellent digestion could encompass two of their whipped-cream-and-chocolate-and-rum-cake
pastries for dessert. He had three cups of coffee, tipped the waiter largely,
and went out into the street again into the wonderful sunlight, his shoes still
comfortable and fresh on his feet. Outside he found a beggar staring into the
windows of the restaurant he had left and, carefully looking through the money
in his pocket, Mr. Johnson approached the beggar and pressed some coins and a
couple of bills into his hand. “It’s the price of the veal cutlet lunch plus
tip,” said Mr. Johnson. “Goodbye.”
    After his lunch
he rested; he walked into the nearest park and fed peanuts to the pigeons. It
was late afternoon by the time he was ready to start back downtown, and he had
refereed two checker games and watched a small boy and girl whose mother had
fallen asleep and awakened with surprise and fear which turned to amusement
when she saw Mr. Johnson. He had given away almost all of his candy, and had
fed all the rest of his peanuts to the pigeons, and it was time to go home.
Although the late afternoon sun was pleasant, and his shoes were still entirely
comfortable, he decided to take a taxi downtown.
    He had a
difficult time catching a taxi, because he gave up the first three or four
empty ones to people who seemed to need them more; finally, however, he stood
alone on the corner and—almost like netting a frisky fish—he hailed desperately
until he succeeded in catching a cab which had been proceeding with haste
uptown and seemed to draw in towards Mr. Johnson against its own will.
    “Mister,” the
cab driver said as Mr. Johnson climbed in, “I figured you was an omen, like. I
wasn’t going to pick you up at all.”
    “Kind of you,” said
Mr. Johnson ambiguously.
    “If I’d of let
you go it would of cost me ten bucks,” said the driver.
    “Really?” said
Mr. Johnson.
    “Yeah,” said the
driver. “Guy just got out of the cab, he turned around and give me ten bucks,
said take this and bet it in a hurry on a horse named Vulcan, right away.”
    “Vulcan?” said
Mr. Johnson, horrified. “A fire sign on a Wednesday?”
    “What?” said the
driver. “Anyway, I said to myself if I got no fare between here and there I’d
bet the ten, but if anyone looked like they needed the cab I’d take it as an
omen and I’d take the ten home to the wife.”
    “You were very
right,” said Mr. Johnson heartily. “This is Wednesday, you would have lost your
money. Monday, yes, or even Saturday. But never never never a fire sign on a
Wednesday. Sunday would have been good, now.”
    “Vulcan don’t
run on Sunday,” said the driver.
    “You wait till
another day,” said Mr. Johnson. “Down this street, please, driver. I’ll get off
on the next corner.”
    “He told me Vulcan, though,” said
the driver.
    “I’ll tell you,”
said Mr. Johnson, hesitating with the door of the cab half open. “You take that
ten dollars and I’ll give you another ten dollars to go with it, and you go
right ahead and bet that money on any Thursday on any horse that has a name
indicating... let me see, Thursday... well, grain. Or any growing food.”
    “Grain?” said
the driver. “You mean a horse named, like, Wheat or something?”
    “Certainly,” said
Mr. Johnson. “Or, as a matter of fact, to