One night the fire-house gang had all assembled save one, a little shrimp of a good-for-nothing, nearly hairless, toothless, cunning-eyed, and given to drink when he could lay lips on any. He had a wide loose mouth with a tendency to droop crookedly, and his hands were always clammy and limp. He ordinarily sat tilted back against the wall to the right of the engine, sucking an old clay pipe. He had a way of often turning the conversation to imply some deep mystery known only to himself behind the life of almost any one discussed. He often added choice embellishments to whatever tale went forth as authentic to go the rounds of the village, and he acted the part of a collector of themes and details for the evening conversations.
His name was Abijah Gage.
"Bi not come yet?" asked the fire chief settling a straw comfortably between his teeth and looking around on the group. "Must be somepin' doin'. Don't know when Bi's been away."
"He went up to town this mornin' early," volunteered Dunc Withers. "Reckon he was thirsty. Guess he'll be back on the evenin' train. That's her comin' in now."
"Bars all closed in the city," chuckled the chief. "Won't get much comfort there."
"You bet Bi knows some place to get it. He won't come home thirsty, that's sure."
"I donno, they say the lid's down pretty tight."
"Aw, shucks!" sneered Dunc. "Bet I could get all I wanted."
Just then the door opened and Abijah Gage walked in, with a toothless grin all around.
"Hello, Bi, get tanked up, did yeh?" greeted the chief.