"Yessir; what sort of an umbrella would you like?"
I said I should like one that would keep the rain off, and that would not allow itself to be left behind in a railway carriage.
"Try an 'automaton,'" said the shopman.
"What's an 'automaton?'" said I.
"Oh, it's a beautiful arrangement," replied the man, with a touch of enthusiasm. "It opens and shuts itself."
I bought one, and found that he was quite correct. It did open and shut itself. I had no control over it whatever. When it began to rain, which it did, that season, every alternate five minutes, I used to try and get the machine to open, but it would not budge; and then I used to stand and struggle with the wretched thing, and shake it, and swear at it, while the rain poured down in torrents. Then the moment the rain ceased, the absurd thing would go up suddenly with a jerk, and would not come down again; and I had to walk about under a bright blue sky, with an umbrella over my head, wishing that it would come on to rain again, so that it might not seem that I was insane.
When it did shut, it did so unexpectedly, and knocked one's hat off.
I don't know why it should be so, but it is an undeniable fact that there is nothing makes a man look so supremely ridiculous as losing his hat. The
