It started when the Vagabond was munching cinnamon toast and a sleeve knocked over the cup of Lipton tea into his lap. The edges of his coat and the top of his trousers were soaked, so that the persons standing beside the nickle-a-piece victrola and those gnawing at ice cream cones in their cars outside noticed the absurdity and laughed.

That evening he sat deep in his chair and absorbed the sonorous words of Maurice Evans as Richard II.

". . . Of comfort no man speak!

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,

Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes

Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth."

The next day he awoke to feel the air hung with moisture. The sky seemed overweighted and ready to break. It reminded him of the time he had seen tears form in a woman's eyes. As he was drinking a glass of water at breakfast, the rains came. They not only came, they poured; first the grounds became wet, then drenched, then saturated. Leaves on the trees dripped sheepishly. People in the street turned up their coat collars, sprung umbrellas open, and began to run.

Like a divine enticement the sky ceased its outburst and lightened. Slowly the streets filled with a mob that increased its frantic, clamorous pace as it turned into Boylston Street and surged over the bridge. Above the turmoil hawkers cried about their display of feathers and tin footballs; the Salvation Army pleaded, and the ticket takers shouted a monotonous command.

Almost two quarters passed of play before the sky could no longer hold back its tears. They were first sobs, blown against the cheek by the wind. Small, individual parts of the mass buttoned coats, donned cellophane slickers, threw newspapers over their heads. The sobs became hysterical weeping, and water slashed upon the stands and upon twenty-two men playing like intent children with a pigskin toy.

Comedy between the halves on the field made the water a joke but when the Vagabond and his girl sat down again a rivulet on the seat made it a wet, very wet joke. Amid this flood of the heavens there was a squirming and uneasiness. Oilskins from the Five and Ten covered exposed legs; the water coursed down the smooth surface of the cloth onto the backs of those in front. Gentlemen turned down the rear brim of their hats, and the water spouted into the face of those behind. The Vagabond's girl borrowed his handkerchief to tie down her unstable hat; one was not enough, however, and she claimed his pocket handkerchief--it was blue and white; it now is bluish white.

So thousands watched a game of football.