“It's a awful stormy night, Popper; you ain't going to stay, are you?”
“Not long. I'll be back to finish the story. So long, kids!” He swung himself down the wooden steps, between his two well-groomed companions, looking back now and then at the bright, open doorway, where the smiling fat woman stood surrounded by half a dozen tow-headed children.
Just as they reached the saloon, the storm, which had evidently only paused for breath, broke in all its fury. The thunder rolled nearer and flashes of lightning pierced the darkness.
“Here! The side door!” shouted Sheeley.
“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.