“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.
“Take yours straight I believe, Mr. Dillingham?” said Sheeley, rejoining them; “an' yer gentleman friend?”
“Nothing for me,” said Morley with unnecessary firmness. “I'll just wait a second until the storm lets up, then be off to town.”
“Do any boxing these days, Dick?” asked Dillingham, pouring himself a second drink of whisky, as he hovered over the newly kindled fire.
“Oh! I don the mitts occasionally to gratify me friends. My long suit these days is faro; more money in it.”
Donald, standing at the window, staring out at the wild night, drummed impatiently on the pane.
“Hurry up, Dill,” he said. “I don't want to keep my mare standing so long in the rain.”
“Your mare be hanged,” said Dillingham; “just wait ten minutes until I get thawed out, and I'll go with you.”
Donald had waited ten minutes for Dill before, but never with the present sense of responsibility, born of his new connection with the family. He knew that his only chance of getting him home was to humor him.