But old Hooblitz heard no sound. No hint of the loud catastrophe. He lay unmoved on his dingy bed, wrapped in a fringe of bibulous ecstasy; half-hidden in the reek of steam that filled the room; oblivious to all mundane things; until the coming of morning confronted him with the cruel truth, and the accusing presence of Mr. Ziffle, asking if he was ready to deliver the culprit to justice. Gussie went stumbling along the muddy street through the rain, wondering how soon he would come to a shed under which he could take momentary shelter. The nearest one was Mr. Honnus’s bar-room. He could see the pale gleam of lamplight reaching out across the street in the distance, but the welcome reflection was still several blocks away. He hurried on, quarreling with himself for going on such a wild goose chase, and cursing old Hooblitz for sending him off in the rain with so little consideration. When he reached Mr. Honnus’s shed, he sat down on the door-step, deliberating whether to go in and have a drink to warm him up; or to continue right on to Carmelite’s house and dry his clothes by her kitchen stove before the raffle started. He came to a decision without long delay. The bar-room door opened, and Chicken-Volsin coming out, Gussie had to get up to let him pass. Seeing Gussie’s wretched condition, Chicken-Volsin exclaimed: “Great Gawd, man! Whah you come from? You look like somebody bin wollin’ in de ditch.... Come inside wid me an’ git somh’n to drink.” “Sho Gawd will,” Gussie answered, well-pleased. “’Cause I feel like I’m ’bout to git de chills; wid all dis col’ rain searchin’ ’round my body.” “Whah in de name o’ Gawd you bin, Gussie?” Volsin asked in amazement; walking over to the bar and calling for whiskey. Gussie gave him a brief account of his useless journey to old Hooblitz’ place; the unfriendly manner in which he had been treated; and his determination to get to Carmelite’s raffle that night, rain or no rain. Anybody that had a spare dime could go and take a chance. And he had his mind set on winning one of Carmelite’s quilts for Aunt Fisky; so he would go, if he had to swim there. Chicken-Volsin tried to shame him about his appearance, but Gussie assured him that he could sit by Carmelite’s stove and dry out before he went in the front room “munks de people.” “Some mens sho is foolish ’bout goin’ wid wimmins,” Volsin twitted. “’Tain’ de wimmins takin’ me to Carmelite house,” Gussie explained. “It’s dem quilts she rafflin’.... I ain’ give Aun’ Fisky nothin’ for so long, I wan’ bring ’uh home somh’n nice to make up for it.... An’ two or three dimes ain’ goin’ break nobody. So da’s w’at I’m goin’ for.” Chicken-Volsin accepted the excuse without further comment, and offered him another friendly drink. Gussie swallowed the whiskey with relish, and seeming to have forgotten his discomfort, started to go.