A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill

								

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 surreptitiously in the noble 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, Dick?” 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--?