short cut, and got marooned. What are you doing here?"

"I've been out in the country for a couple of weeks. Got caught in the
shower. What's the matter? Are you sick?"

Dillingham was leaning against the door jamb, shivering. He was a
short, sallow, delicate-looking young fellow with self-explanatory
puffs under his somewhat prominent eyes.

"Chilled to the bone," he chattered. "I've got to get something to
warm me up. Is this a saloon?"

"Yes, but it's closed. Won't be open until midnight."

Mr. Dillingham made a sweeping condemnation of a city administration
that would countenance such a proceeding, then set his wits to work to
evade the law.

"Whose joint is this, anyhow?" he asked, glancing up. "Sheeley's? Why,
of course. I've been out here to prize fights. He lives somewhere
around here. Ugh! but I'm cold. I'll be a corpse this time next week
if I don't head off this chill. Let's look him up and get a drink."

Donald hesitated to spring the news of his reformation upon one who
was already in a weakened condition. He assured himself that he would
refuse when the time came. In the meanwhile no reason presented itself
for refusing to assist his friend in quest of a life-preserver.

"Sheeley used to live in one of those shacks over there. It's letting
up a bit, suppose we go over?" proposed Dillingham, shaking the water