"Come, boys," he said, with brisk conviviality, "take a parting drink
with me before you go." Producing a black bottle from some obscurity
beneath the counter that smelt strongly of india-rubber boots, he placed
it with four glasses before his guests. Each made a feint of holding his
glass against the opaque window while filling it, although nothing could
be seen. A sudden tumult of wind and rain again shook the building, but
even after it had passed the glass door still rattled violently.

"Just see what's loose, Peters," said Billings; "you're nearest it."

Peters, still holding the undrained glass in his hand, walked slowly
towards it.

"It's suthin'--or somebody outside," he said, hesitatingly.

The three others came eagerly to his side. Through the glass, clouded
from within by their breath, and filmed from without by the rain, some
vague object was moving, and what seemed to be a mop of tangled hair
was apparently brushing against the pane. The door shook again, but less
strongly. Billings pressed his face against the glass. "Hol' on," he
said in a quick whisper,--"it's 'Lige!" But it was too late. Harkutt
had already drawn the lower bolt, and a man stumbled from the outer
obscurity into the darker room.

The inmates drew away as he leaned back for a moment against the door
that closed behind him. Then dimly, but instinctively, discerning the
glass of liquor which Wingate still mechanically held in his hand,
he reached forward eagerly, took it from Wingate's surprised and
unresisting fingers, and drained it at a gulp. The four men laughed