A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill

								

obliged to dismount and seek shelter in the doorway of an isolated
building that stood at the end of the common. It was a double door with
the upper parts in colored glass, on which was boldly lettered,
The CANT-PASS-IT SALOON.
In one of the windows a placard informed the famishing residents of
Billy-goat Hill that their thirst might not be assuaged until after
twelve o'clock on Sunday night.
As Donald stood in the doorway, an automobile turned the corner and
came to a stop, the lights from the lamps shining on the wet street, and
throwing everything outside their radius into sudden darkness.
A man got out of the machine and ran for shelter. He was coughing, and
held his collar close about his throat.
“Why, hello, Dillingham,” said Morley, recognizing him. “How did you get
out here?”
“Joy-riding,” said Dillingham with a curl of his lip. “Tried to make a
short cut, and got marooned. What are you doing here?”
“I've been out in the country for a couple of weeks. Got caught in the
shower. What's the matter? Are you sick?”
Dillingham was leaning against the door jamb, shivering. He was a short,
sallow, delicate-looking young fellow with self-explanatory puffs under
his somewhat prominent eyes.
“Chilled to the bone,” he chattered. “I've got to get something to warm
me up. Is this a saloon?”
“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 assured himself that he would refuse
when the time came. In the meanwhile no reason presented itself for
refusing to assist 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 amusement. “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!