byIt was the third Sunday in March. A roaring storm of mingled rain and snow, driven by a riotous wind—wild even for the Great Lakes in winter—had surged through the streets of Chicago all day; a little after ten o’clock at night the temperature fell rapidly and the rain and snow changed suddenly to sleet. At twenty minutes past the hour, the slush that filled the streets began to freeze. Mr. Luther Trant, hastening on foot back to his rooms at his club, observed that the soft mess underfoot had become coated with tough, rubbery ice, through which the heels of his shoes crunched at every step while his toes left almost no mark.
Trant had been taking the day “off,” away from both his office and his club; but fifteen minutes before, he had called up the club for the first time that day and
