d Bill the only living things astir in all the town.

He reached Water Street, the western boundary of that part of Mount Hope
known as the flats. He jogged past Maxy Schaffer's Railroad Hotel at the
corner of Front Street, which flung the wicked radiance of its bar-room
windows along the shining railroad track where it crossed the creek on
the new iron bridge; and keeping on down Water Street with its smoky
tenements, entered an outlying district where the lamps were far apart
and where red and blue and green switch lights blinked at him out of the
storm.

It was nearly six o'clock when he at last wheeled into the Square; here
only three gasolene burners--survivors of the old regime--held their own
against the fast encroaching gas-lamp.

He lighted the one in Division Street and was ready to turn and traverse
the north side of the Square to the second lamp which stood a block away
at the corner of High Street. He was drawing Bill's head about--Bill
being smitten with a sudden desire to go directly home leaving the
night's work unfinished--when the muffled figure of a man appeared in
the street in front of him. The inch or more of snow that now covered
the pavement had deadened the sound of his steps, while the eddying
flakes had made possible his near approach unseen. As he came rapidly
into the red glare of Mr. Shrimplin's hissing torch that hero was
exceeding well pleased to recognize a friendly face.

"How are you, Mr. North!" he said, and John North halted suddenly.

"Oh, it's you, Shrimp! A nasty night, isn't it?"

"It's the suffering human limit!" rejoined Mr. Shrimplin with feeling.

As he spoke the town bell rang the hour; unconsciously, perhaps, the two
men paused until the last reverberating stroke had spent itself in the
snowy distance.

"Six o'clock," observed Mr. Shrimplin.

"Good night, Shrimp," replied North irrelevantly.

He turned away and an instant later was engulfed in the wintry night.

Having at last pointed Bill's head in the right direction Mr. Shrimplin
drove that trusty beast up to the lamp-post on the corner of High
Street, when suddenly and for no apparent reason Bill settled back in
the shafts and exhibited unmistakable, though humiliating symptoms of
fright.

"Go on, you!" cried Mr. Shrimplin, slapping bravely with both the lines,
but his voice was far from steady, for suppose Bill should abandon the
rectitude of a lifetime and begin to kick.

"Go on, you!" repeated Mr. Shri