He did not ponder very long; indeed, the freight that was transporting McCann could hardly have been out of sight over the summit of the grade, when a knock at the door was followed by the entrance of the dripping figure of the padrone. Shanley looked up anxiously. “Hello, Pietro,” he said nervously, for the weather wasn’t the kind that would bring a man out for nothing, and he was keenly alive to that new responsibility. “Hello, Pietro,” he repeated. “Anything wrong?” Pietro grinned amiably, shook his head, unbuttoned his coat, and held out--a bottle. Shanley stared in amazement, and then began to blink furiously. “Here!” said he. “What’s this?” “Chianti,” said Pietro, grinning harder than ever. “Key-aunty.” Shanley screwed up his face. “What the devil is key-aunty?” “Ver’ good wine from Italia,” said the beaming padrone. “It is, is it? Well, it’s against the rules,” asserted Shanley with conviction. “It’s against the rules. McCann’u’d skin you alive. He would. Where’d you get it? What’s up, eh? It’s against the rules. I’m in charge.” Pietro explained. It was his birthday. It was very bad weather. For the rest of the afternoon there would be no work. They would celebrate the birthday, Meester McCann had taken the train. As for the wine--Pietro shrugged his shoulders--his people adored wine. Unless they were very poor his people would have a little wine in their packs, perhaps. He was not quite sure where they had got it, but it was very thoughtful of them to remember his birthday. Each had presented him with a little wine. This bottle was an expression of their very great good estime of Meester Shanley. Perhaps, later, Meester Shanley would come himself to the shack. “It’s against the rules,” blinked Shanley. “McCann ‘u’d skin you alive. Maybe I’ll drop in by and by. You can leave the bottle.” Pietro bobbed, grinned delightedly, handed over the bottle, and backed out into the storm. Shanley, still blinking, placed the bottle on the table, and gazed at it thoughtfully for a few minutes--and his thoughts were of Carleton. “If ‘twere whisky,” said he, “I’d have no part of it, not a drop, not even a smell. I would not. I would not touch it. But as it is----” Shanley uncorked the bottle. Not at all. One does _not_ get drunk on a bottle of Chianti wine. A single bottle of Chianti wine is very little. That is the trouble--it is _very_ little. After three weeks of abstinence it is very little indeed--so little that it is positively tantalizing.