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Hamilton Rogers IV forced himself to remain calm for the next ten seconds. He compared the numbers once again. Then he looked at the date of the draw as printed on the ticket that he held in his hand and the date on the poster in front of him on the counter of the store. The numbers and the date were identical on both ticket and poster. Clearly, he did have a winner.
    His eyes turned back to the poster, looking to see where one would take a winning ticket if in the great odds of the lottery one should discover that one did indeed have a winning ticket. The address was there. The office was located in that very city, several blocks from where he presently stood. As casually as he could make himself do so, John Hamilton Rogers IV turned toward the door of the store.
    “No luck, huh?” asked the clerk, barely raising her eyes. “Too bad. Want to try again?”
    John Hamilton Rogers IV, who rarely had sufficient funds to buy a lottery ticket and who at the moment had only twenty-five cents in cash to his impressive name, although he had assets worth three million dollars, merely shook his head, tripped over the doorsill and, catching his balance, stepped out onto the sidewalk. He stood absolutely still for nearly a minute. Then he turned and at his usual pace for that time in the morning, headed for the office of the lottery corporation.
    “Please wait just a moment, sir,” said the clerk as she handed back his lottery ticket. “I will ask Mr. Richardson to speak with you.” She disappeared into an office nearby from which John Hamilton Rogers could hear a murmur of voices through the closed door. The murmur seemed to become a trifle louder and then the door opened, the clerk motioning him to enter the private office.
    “Well, sir,” began the dapper young man who was standing behind the desk in the office. “It would appear that you have had some good fortune. Please sit down. May I have your name?”
    “John Rogers,” said John Hamilton Rogers as he sat on the chair on the other side of the desk from Mr. Richardson. “John Hamilton Rogers IV. That means there were three others who have had that name: my father, my grandfather, and my great-grandfather.” He smiled at the young man across the desk.
    “Uh, yes,” Mr. Richardson replied, also smiling, but rather thinly. He found himself looking at a graying, more than middle-aged man, slightly under six feet in height, wearing a totally disreputable jacket, a dreadful pair of old work pants made from some heavy material, a once-white shirt and Heaven only knew what kind of shoes. Mr. Richardson became aware of some quite real feelings of foreboding rising from his middle depths. The smile doggedly hung to his lips in spite of the foreboding.
    “What is your address, Mr. Rogers?”
    “I don’t really have an address. I sort of stay wherever I can for as long as I can stay there. Right now I am at the Civic Men’s Shelter.”
    When John Hamilton Rogers IV mentioned the shelter, Mr. Richardson’s feelings of foreboding became infinitely stronger.
    “Yes. Well. You probably realize, Mr. Rogers, that we do not exactly hand you three million dollars in cash. The, um, terms of the lottery are such that we deposit into your bank account the sum of three hundred thousand dollars each year for a period of ten years. Will you, uh, give me the name of your bank and the number of your account there so that we may begin the paperwork? And, oh yes, if you will let me have that winning ticket, I will give you an official receipt for it.”
    “Well, now. That does present a problem.” John Hamilton Rogers handed over the ticket and watched Mr. Richardson begin to write the receipt. “I do not, ah, presently seem to have a bank account.”
    He leaned back in his chair and looked at the lottery official. Mr. Richardson sat quietly for a moment, the picture of a man who was fighting a very strong battle against forebodings. Neither man spoke for several seconds. Then a slow