"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.