"Wait till I strike a match. I'll take the umbrella. Go right up-
stairs, if you don't mind. I want you to see the improvements I been
making. There ain't a saloon this side the city limits that's got the
'quipment for sparring matches mine has."

"Get busy with some whisky in the meanwhile," reminded Dillingham
sharply; "and I say, can't you make a fire somewhere? I'm chattering
like an idiot."

"Sure I can. There's a stove up there, and a bottle or two of extra
fine liquor. Jes' step right up."

Half way up the ill-lighted stairs they paused. Above the wind and the
rain, a curious sound had come from below as if someone had stumbled
against something.

"Who is that?" Sheeley demanded sharply, leaning over the banister and
peering down into the gloom.

No answer came, but a draught of wind blew in from somewhere, swaying
the gas-jet.

"Oh! it's a window that's left open," said Sheeley. "That fool
bartender! I'll just go down and fasten it."

The lock proved stubborn, and it was with some difficulty that he
forced it into place. Meanwhile the two young men had lit the gas in
the large upper room and were inspecting the elevated stage where
boxers were wont to engage surreptitiously in the noble art of self-
defense.