drove in and out of shabby unfrequented streets and alleys.

It had grown steadily colder with the approach of night, and the wind
had risen. The streets seemed deserted, and Mr. Shrimplin being as he
was of a somewhat fanciful turn of mind, could almost imagine himself
and 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 régime--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.