"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. Shrimplin, putting aside
with one hand the blankets in which he was wrapped. "You're a game old
codger, ain't you? I guess you ain't aware you've growed up!"

While he was still speaking he slipped to the ground and worked his way
hand over hand up the lines to Bill's bit. Bill was now comfortably
located on his haunches, but evidently still dissatisfied for he
continued to back vigorously, drawing the protesting little lamplighter
after him. When he had put perhaps twenty feet between himself and the
lamp-post Bill achieved his usual upright attitude and his countenance
assumed its habitual contemplative expression, the haunted look faded
from his sagacious eye and his flaming nostrils resumed their normal
benevolent expression. Taking note of these swift changes, it occurred
to Mr. Shrimplin that rather than risk a repetition of his recent
experience he would so far sacrifice his official dignity as to go on
foot to the lamp-post. Bill would probably stand where he was,
indefinitely, standing being one of his most valued accomplishments. The
lamplighter took up his torch which he had put aside in the struggle
with Bill and walked to the curb.

And here Mr. Shrimplin noticed that which had not before caught his
attention. McBride's store was apparently open, for the bracketed oil
lamps that hung at regular intervals the full length of the long narrow
room, were all alight.

Mr. Shrimplin, whose moods were likely to be critical and censorious,
realized that there was something personally offensive in the fact that