he 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. Shrimplin and slapped the lines again, but
less vigorously, for by this time Bill was unquestionably backing away
from the curb.
"Be done! Be done!" expostulated Mr. Shrimplin, but he gave over
slapping the lines, for why irritate Bill in his present uncertain mood?
"Want I should get out and lead you?" asked Mr. Shrimp