“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 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.