A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill Part 5

"Yes, but it's closed. Won't be open until midnight."

Mr. Dillingham made a sweeping condemnation of a city administration that would countenance such a proceeding, then set his wits to work to evade the law.

"Whose joint is this, anyhow?" he asked, glancing up. "Sheeley's? Why, of course. I've been out here to prize fights. He lives somewhere around here. Ugh! but I'm cold. I'll be a corpse this time next week if I don't head off this chill. Let's look him up and get a drink."

Donald hesitated to spring the news of his reformation upon one who was already in a weakened condition. He a.s.sured himself that he would refuse when the time came. In the meanwhile no reason presented itself for refusing to a.s.sist his friend in quest of a life-preserver.

"Sheeley used to live in one of those shacks over there. It's letting up a bit, suppose we go over?" proposed Dillingham, shaking the water out of his cap.

"Been out to the house to-day?" asked Donald as they splashed through the mud.

"Just came from there. The truth is Margery and I have fixed things up at last. Any congratulations?"

"To be sure," said Donald, extending a wet hand, but frowning into the darkness. "Have you told my sister?"

"Mrs. Sequin?" Dillingham smiled with superior amus.e.m.e.nt. "I guess she didn't have to be told. I imagine she thought of it before we did.

Rather keen on me, you know, from the start."

Donald drew in his breath but said nothing. Had it not been true, how he would have enjoyed punching Dill's head!

"You get off to the Orient this week, I suppose," went on Dillingham.

"Lucky devil! Decker asked me to go along. If it hadn't been for the paternal grandparent I'd have gone in a minute, but he put his foot down. When do you sail?"

"I've given up the trip. I'm going to buy a farm out near the Wickers', and get down to work."

Dillingham whistled incredulously:

"Yes, I see you doing it! You are counting on pulling off the Derby, I suppose?"

"No, I'm not going to enter my horse."

"What! Why Lickety-Split could win that race in a walk. All the crowd say you stand to win. Here, this is the shanty; at least it's where he used to live."

A bright light streamed from the uncurtained window of a small cottage, revealing a family group within. A fat, smiling woman in curl papers, with a baby in her arms, and six youngsters in varying stages of Sabbath cleanliness, hung upon the words of a man who sat in a large, plush self-rocker, and read from a highly colored picture book. In the head of the family Dillingham recognized Richard Sheeley, ex-pugilist, and present proprietor of the Cant-Pa.s.s-It.

"Well, if it ain't Mr. Dillingham!" exclaimed Sheeley, throwing open the door in answer to their knock. "Soaked through, ain't you? Little somethin' to warm you up? Sure. Just come in and wait 'til I git on my shoes and find an umbrella and I'll go over with you. Don't keep a drop here," he added in a whisper, behind a hand so large that he evidently regarded it as sound proof. "Missus won't stand fer it, 'count of the kids, eh?"

"That's him, Ma, the one I was telling you about," Richard Sheeley, Jr.,--yclept "Skeeter"--tugged at his mother's sleeve, nodding his head at Donald, who was making love to the smallest and shyest of the daughters of the house.

"She ain't as meek as she looks!" Mrs. Sheeley was saying, as she tried to get the child from behind her skirts. "She's got her popper's temper along with his smartness. They ain't either one of them got a grain of sense when they git mad. I never seen a child with such a temper, did you, Popper?"

But Sheeley did not heed her; he was busy doing the honors to one he evidently considered an honored guest.

"Sit right down here, Mr. Dillingham, lemme take the book out of the chair. I was just reading to the Missus and the kids a book Skeeter brought home from Sunday School, all about Dan'l and the lions' den.

Tall tale that, Mr. Dillingham. About one of the raciest animal articles I ever come acrost."

When they were ready to go, Mrs. Sheeley followed them anxiously to the door.

"It's a awful stormy night, Popper; you ain't going to stay, are you?"

"Not long. I'll be back to finish the story. So long, kids!" He swung himself down the wooden steps, between his two well-groomed companions, looking back now and then at the bright, open doorway, where the smiling fat woman stood surrounded by half a dozen tow-headed children.

Just as they reached the saloon, the storm, which had evidently only paused for breath, broke in all its fury. The thunder rolled nearer and flashes of lightning pierced the darkness.

"Here! The side door!" shouted Sheeley.

"Wait till I strike a match. I'll take the umbrella. Go right up-stairs, if you don't mind. I want you to see the improvements I been making.

There ain't a saloon this side the city limits that's got the 'quipment for sparring matches mine has."

"Get busy with some whisky in the meanwhile," reminded Dillingham sharply; "and I say, can't you make a fire somewhere? I'm chattering like an idiot."

"Sure I can. There's a stove up there, and a bottle or two of extra fine liquor. Jes' step right up."

Half way up the ill-lighted stairs they paused. Above the wind and the rain, a curious sound had come from below as if someone had stumbled against something.

"Who is that?" Sheeley demanded sharply, leaning over the banister and peering down into the gloom.

No answer came, but a draught of wind blew in from somewhere, swaying the gas-jet.

"Oh! it's a window that's left open," said Sheeley. "That fool bartender! I'll just go down and fasten it."

The lock proved stubborn, and it was with some difficulty that he forced it into place. Meanwhile the two young men had lit the gas in the large upper room and were inspecting the elevated stage where boxers were wont to engage surrept.i.tiously in the n.o.ble art of self-defense.

"Take yours straight I believe, Mr. Dillingham?" said Sheeley, rejoining them; "an' yer gentleman friend?"

"Nothing for me," said Morley with unnecessary firmness. "I'll just wait a second until the storm lets up, then be off to town."

"Do any boxing these days, d.i.c.k?" asked Dillingham, pouring himself a second drink of whisky, as he hovered over the newly kindled fire.

"Oh! I don the mitts occasionally to gratify me friends. My long suit these days is faro; more money in it."

Donald, standing at the window, staring out at the wild night, drummed impatiently on the pane.

"Hurry up, Dill," he said. "I don't want to keep my mare standing so long in the rain."

"Your mare be hanged," said Dillingham; "just wait ten minutes until I get thawed out, and I'll go with you."

Donald had waited ten minutes for Dill before, but never with the present sense of responsibility, born of his new connection with the family. He knew that his only chance of getting him home was to humor him.

How the wind whistled across the window! He wondered what Miss Lady was doing? Was she sitting by the table in the cozy living-room at Thornwood, with the lamplight on her hair? Was she at the harpsichord, singing to the Colonel? Was she standing, as he was standing, at the window, peering out into the wild night, and thinking,--and longing--?

"What's the matter with a little game of poker?" asked Sheeley, lightly running a deck of cards up the length of his arm and reversing them with a deftness that spoke of long familiarity.

"Great idea!" exclaimed Dillingham expansively. "Just pa.s.s that bottle, will you? What's that, Morley? Haven't got time? What in thunder's the matter with you to-night?"

Donald retorted, with great dignity, that nothing in thunder was the matter with him, except that he wanted to get back to town.

"Better not start with it storming like this," urged Sheeley, as a crash of thunder shook the windows. "It'll let up soon."