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And yet when a drunken man who, for some unknown reason, was

being taken somewhere in a huge waggon dragged by a heavy dray

horse, suddenly shouted at him as he drove past: "Hey there,

German hatter" bawling at the top of his voice and pointing at

him--the young man stopped suddenly and clutched tremulously at

his hat. It was a tall round hat from Zimmerman's, but completely

worn out, rusty with age, all torn and bespattered, brimless and

bent on one side in a most unseemly fashion. Not shame, however,

but quite another feeling akin to terror had overtaken him.