A blustering wind, spotted with flurries of rain, lashed icily at Gurdweill’s face, drummed on the tin signs and closed shutters, and swayed the electric lights festooning the city like strings of orange pearls. Weather in which a man would have been well advised to hold on to his hat: a precaution that Gurdweill in his absent-mindedness failed to take. And all of a sudden he was chasing ridiculously after the article in question as it flew down Lerchenfelder Strasse, a foot above the ground, diving to the pavement only to take off again at his approach, as if on purpose to mock and torment him. Gurdweill pursued it steadily, bending down from time to time with his hand outstretched to snatch it from the air. Then it began bowling along on its rim like a wheel, and in the end it flew up, turned over once like a strange black bird, and dropped down dead on the pavement. Gurdweill pounced and put his foot on it. Exhausted and out of breath from the chase, he picked it up and shook it and scolded it aloud. ‘Have you gone out of your mind?’ he demanded crossly. ‘Don’t ever do that again!’