Saburo Yamashita huddled in the cold staring straight ahead. He sat on his heels on a cushion which slightly softened the hardness of a small wooden pallet four inches above the street. He wore many layers of clothing and two pairs of gloves. A long scarf was wrapped around his thin wrinkled neck several times, and his bald head and ears were covered with a schoolboy's knitted cap. On his left was a clay pot with wire-frame bucket handle, and in the center of the pot a charcoal fire glowed red. Still, the old man was not warm, but he did not think about the cold of this night.

In front of the old man was a jam of dark pant legs. He looked at his watch. It was almost time, a little after nine. The last of the commuters were still coming home from their jobs in Tokyo. A minute later he saw them: two pant legs walking briskly among the others, a briefcase swinging alongside. The old man was close enough to the briefcase to speak to the man, but he did not. Nor did he look up at the face above. He didn't have to because he knew who it was. When he saw the pant legs walking briskly and the swinging briefcase, he didn't notice the cold anymore, or the weight of his age.